


365 Days of Thilbo

by thingsishouldntbedoing



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Family Feels, Gen, Heartbreak, Kissing, Language Barrier, Language of Flowers, M/M, Post-Canon, Swordplay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-04 17:33:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 36
Words: 21,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3076196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingsishouldntbedoing/pseuds/thingsishouldntbedoing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lives are a collection of moments and memories. These are 365 of them, straight from the lives of Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Baggins. [AKA jotea writes one thing a day for an entire year]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1 - Welcome Back

**Author's Note:**

> So you can blame [Radio](http://radiorcrist.tumblr.com/) for this disaster.
> 
> One chapter. Every day. For a year.
> 
>  **The rules are as follows:**  
>  1\. I must update every day unless circumstances don't permit me to.  
> 2\. Each update must be a minimum of 250 words  
> 3\. The stories do not need to be within the same universe but may align  
> 4\. Every Friday night will be a smut night and I'll fill a smut request  
> 5\. Thorin and Bilbo must be in each chapter. (One may feature heavily but the other must be mentioned.)
> 
> This will also be updated on my [tumblr](http://thingsishouldntbedoing.co.vu/tagged/thilbo365).

He had passed through these same rolling hills with a much brighter outlook months before, thinking of meeting his kin once more and leading them into victorious battle - he also remembered being lost for several hours wandering between the knolls the Hobbits called homes.

How anyone could navigate such a place was beyond him.

This time, however, he made his way more slowly, taking the chance to look around at the Hobbits as they passed him by. They looked back, equally as curious, scuttling out of his way as if he were on fire. He was a sight, he knew that much, with his furs and velvets and mail - and his shoulders straightened proudly under their eyes.

The walk to the front door of Bag End seemed more a penance than a promenade; the long walk to ruin that could determine his future in more ways than one.

He’d rather be fighting Azog again.

Still, he knocked, careful not to scratch the paint - and waited. Waited for the person he had come all this way for to open the door.

A flicker of excitement bubbled in his chest, bright and warm, and he wondered just how Bilbo would react - as he had been for all the months he’d travelled. He’d pictured joy and sadness and frustration, and reveled in each one of them, each an independent emotion informing the actions of someone he cared so deeply for. 

“Good afternoon,” a familiar voice said pleasantly as the round door swung open.

A beat.

A kettle whistled from the kitchen and a warm summer breeze had a bead of sweat trickling down his brow.

His Hobbit looked no different than he had the year before: with soft brown curls and eyes like lapis lazuli and an expressive mouth meant for easy smiles and laughter. For Thorin he looked like a dream.

“You’re dead!” Bilbo’s voice shattered around the knot in his throat.  
  
“Bilb-” The door’s slam blew his hair back from his face.

A very _rude_ dream.

“Bilbo?” He said his name again and a crack appeared in the door. “Please come out.”  
  
“No! No I am having none of this. I am already crazy enough around here without _you_ showing up out of the blue like a _ghoul_. You are dead. Deader than dead. I know because I watched to _die_ -”  
  
Thorin could nearly see Bilbo’s hand motions, ever expressive, as the Hobbit struggled for words.  
  
“- And now you’re _here_ and I just can’t have these hallucinations standing on my doorstep.”  
  
“I am not a hallucination.” He let his rucksack drop to his elbow as the door opened wider and Bilbo’s curious face appeared around the edge.  
  
“Not?” His bottom lip quivered and Thorin didn’t stop the apologetic smile.  
  
“No, I’m afraid not. Though if you’d like me to leave I can-”  
  
“No!” Bilbo was out the door in an instant, crashing into Thorin’s chest with his entire might.

Thorin wrapped his arms around him and held him tightly, curling his fingers into the silken hair at the nape of Bilbo’s neck.  
  
“ _Welcome back_.”

If he had been a stronger man Bilbo’s words wouldn’t have broken him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Inspired by this post.](http://breadsports.tumblr.com/post/106715149530/you-died/)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> godspeed.


	2. Day 2 - Respectable (Fuck Me Friday #1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _First Edition of Fuck Me Friday_ \- Thorin and Bilbo celebrate the great King's return to the Shire.

Never had there been and never again would there be a morning where Bilbo Baggins woke up with a brighter smile on his face. He couldn’t remember, for all his life, waking up and feeling the coils of joy bursting through the temperance of peace.

“Where are you going?” A rough voice rose, muffled, from his bed.  
  
“To make tea, and breakfast,” Bilbo picked up clothes as he went, throwing them into the hamper.

“Is this going to be a reoccuring issue? Every morning you’re going to hop out of bed and make tea and leave me cold?” Thorin shifted to look at him.  
  
If Thorin Oakenshield wasn’t aware of how beautiful he was, Bilbo might have eaten his entire tea set. There was no way he didn’t know just how the curves of his muscle shifted beneath his skin, how the long strands of his hair clung to the pillow cases like coils of smoke in the air, and there was _no_ way the crooked smirk on his face had escaped the Dwarf King’s knowledge.  
  
He struggled with his Hobbit-nature for cleanliness and the rather Dwarvish desire to throw himself back under the duvet and relive the events of the night before, stamping his feet in place for a moment… He was certain no respectable Hobbit had done what he’d done the previous evening.

Then again, he was _not_ a respectable Hobbit any longer.

“Tea… _first_ ,” he tried to steel his resolve, clearing his throat with a wave of his finger. He would _not_ give in to Thorin so easily, tearing his eyes away from the smile that grew slightly bigger in the aftermath of his statement.

“You are transparent.”  
  
“I am nothing if not entirely _opaque_.” He tried to pretend he hadn’t understood his meaning, bustling to pick up Thorin’s long discarded armor and arrange it neatly on the dressing table.

“ _Bilbo_ ,” his voice scraped the bottom of his register and the Hobbit clutched a vambrace in his hands a little more tightly than he meant to. “Come back.”  
  
He placed the throttled arm piece down and turned back to face him.

_Mistake number one._

“It’s eight, Thorin, I should have had breakfast an hour ago!”  
  
“Why are you so worried about a time schedule? You haven’t lived on a time schedule for two years.”  
  
“For your information I have been back in the Shire for _six_ months, and…” He wasn’t sure where his argument was going. “I’m… hungry…” he wasn’t sure if the hunger in his gut was for food or _not_.  
  
“Have it your way,” Thorin sank back into the pillows.  
  
It wasn’t like Thorin to give in so easily. Oh no. He had seen another tactical advantage that Bilbo was unaware of and the thought made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. Needless to say he didn’t turn his back to the Dwarf King as he sidled out of the bedroom.

_Mistake number two._

His fingers were clumsier than ever before as he made his tea, mind absent, trying to pretend there wasn’t an impossibly patient and suspiciously quiet Thorin Oakenshield in his bedroom. There was nothing patient or quiet about the Thorin in his head, though, and that was the worst part.

The Thorin in his head growled words in his ear and nipped at his shoulders. The one in his head had rough hands that slid down over the skin of his thighs and a warm mouth against his spine.

“Bebother this!” He turned and started back for the bedroom, heart racing. 

“You did this on purpose!” He didn’t appreciate how easily Thorin laughed, how assured he seemed that Bilbo would return.  


“I did nothing.”  
  
“That’s _exactly_ my point,” Bilbo didn’t stop his fingers from gliding up Thorin’s chest, curling his fingers into the dark hair above his heart.  
  
“Blaming me for your own impropriety.”  
  
“Impro-” His jaw stiffened and he leaned in. 

_Final mistake._

Thorin had kissed him and tangled a hand in his hair before he could react, effectively ending any sort of protest he had prepared.  
  
Tacticians were capable of many things and well-trained warriors could predict the movements of entire armies; Thorin was both of those - he was also devious in a way that Bilbo had come to understand was a Dwarven trait.  
  
Bilbo was a dark horse - not to be underestimated.  
  
He drew back before his resolve could crumble, pushing Thorin back down into the bed.  
  
“Stay still,” he murmured, nipping Thorin’s bottom lip.  
  
“What are you doing?” There was a rough edge to his voice when the Hobbit placed a soft kiss against the scar on his chest.

Bilbo trailed down his chest, paying attention to each scar with soft kisses and a warm tongue. He scraped his teeth over the muscle of his stomach to hear him gasp, drawing a sweat to Thorin’s skin.

He ran his hands over the hard edges of Thorin’s hips, enjoying the heat in the Dwarf King’s gaze and the muscle that worked in his jaw, flashing - what he was well aware was - a mischievous grin.  
  
“Bilbo,” Thorin said his name and he thought he might have been able to _feel_ the rumble.

“No touching,” Bilbo said softly, swatting his hand away.  
  
“Whatever you’re planning, I -” Bilbo’s fingers curling around the base of his cock silenced him.

“You were saying?”

“ _Mahal_ will you move?” Thorin swore and Bilbo cackled when his hips canted up.  
  
“That doesn’t sound like asking nicely,” Bilbo allowed himself a cheeky answer despite the dangerous look in Thorin’s eyes.

“If you make me ask, I’ll-”

Bilbo leaned down and licked him from root to tip, letting his tongue move up his raphe and slipping up under the sensitive foreskin - a single, fluid motion that had Thorin groaning. Bilbo let him slide between his lips, working the length he couldn’t fit, fingers slick with his own saliva - revelling the tug of Thorin’s fist in his hair and the impatient jerk of his hips.

The obscenity of the situation didn’t escape him: the sounds of his own ragged breathing, Thorin’s heavy, broken groans that raked against his fraying nerves and wound around the heat in his belly - stark and heated contrasts to the bright light and bustling world outside the walls of Bag End. Regardless, reducing the _Great_ Thorin Oakenshield to a panting, dithering mess was something that gave him great joy.  
  
His name rolled off the Dwarf King’s lips like a prayer, broken and _wrecked_ , when he came - muscles clenching and hips rolling involuntarily, fingers fisted in Bilbo’s hair.  
  
Respectable was not a word that Bilbo could ever use again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> _whiiiiiines_  
>   
> 
> Read this on **[tumblr](http://thingsishouldntbedoing.co.vu/tagged/thilbo365>tumblr</a>.)**


	3. Day 3 - Help comes from unexpected places. (Part I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Modern AU] If help comes from strange places, then the request must come from stranger. Thorin needs _someone_ to drive him to the hospital and it might as well be Bilbo.

“Shit,” the knife dropped from his hand onto the counter, clattering loud enough to echo against his nerves. He watched, brows knitted, as blood beaded along the cut and blossomed into scarlet rivers, dodging and curling around fish scales and droplets of water. 

“God damn it, Thorin,” he swore to himself and dove to the sink, throwing his hand under the running water. It became apparent that the blood was not going to stop with a few moments of pressure and he looked around for a hand towel, snatching it up and pressing it hard against his palm. "Hospital... Gotta get to the hospital." It was that desperation that led him to an unfamiliar front door.

“Oh my god,” was the first thing out of his neighbor’s mouth when he answered Thorin’s knock. Thorin watched the stranger's eyes dart down to the blood-soaked towel on his hand and back up to his face. They had only bumped into each other a few times on the stairs, and he was certain that coming to his house in the middle of the night with blood dripping down his wrist wasn't on the list of things unfamiliar neighbors usually participated in willingly.

He wondered why he had never noticed how cute his neighbor was, but that might have been the blood loss talking.

“I hate to ask, but I’ve cut my hand and I can’t drive myself to the hospital,” he lifted his swaddled fingers. “As quickly as possible would be optimal.”

“I’m…” The man pressed his hand to his mouth as if he might vomit, visibly paling. “Ugh, I-”

“Please! I’m sorry I have to ask, but I don’t know who else to go to and I’m losing blood pretty rapidly.” 

Thorin wondered what he must have looked like with his hair hastily tied back with one hand and fish scales clinging to his sweatshirt... Probably like a madman with a bloody hand - not that far off, all things considered.

“Y-Yes of course! I, uhm - let me just…” He held up his finger, hand shaking as he heaved behind his fist, vanishing behind the door.

Thorin stood on the doorstep, silently reevaluating his life choices, and prayed his neighbor would be quicker.

“Okay, I’m so sorry,” Thorin's savior emerged in a jumper, keys jingling in his hand. “Do you mind if I ask what happened?” He ran his fingers through the messy curls atop his head, leading Thorin down the hallway. 

“I was filleting fish,” he followed. “My name is Thorin, by the way.”

“Thorin, right, my name is Bilbo. Baggins. Bilbo Baggins,” he cleared his throat, looking over his shoulder. 

Thorin was just glad that Bilbo didn’t faint until after they reached the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can also read this on [](http://thingsishouldntbedoing.co.vu/tagged/thilbo365>tumblr</a>)


	4. Day 4 - Blades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [DoS] Thorin decides it's high time Bilbo learns to use a sword. Bilbo thinks it's time for a pacemaker.

He brushed his hair from his face, crouching as close to the fire as he dared. He could hear the clang of swords and the easy laughter of Thorin’s nephews, turning his head to see them sparring - more for show than for sport.  
  
“Fíli, do that thing the Elves do,” Kíli prompted him and his brother whirled one of his swords around his hand to a cheer from the other Dwarves. “Better than any Elf!”  
  
“Takes some practice, their knives are swifter,” Fíli balanced the hilt on his fingers for show.  
  
“Don’t blunt your swords against each other,” Thorin warned, but Bilbo could see him smiling behind his fist.  
  
“Bilbo could learn! He has fast hands!” Kíli said confidently and the Hobbit felt dread sink into his stomach.  
  
“Oh no, I… I couldn’t… I have _no_ skill with a sword.” He waved his hand, curling the other around the Elvish blade Gandalf had given him.  
  
“Well, then it may be time you learned,” Thorin said and Bilbo narrowed his eyes at the Dwarf Prince, feelings of betrayal evident on his face. “You got through the Goblin tunnels on luck, you should know how to handle a blade.”  
  
“Oh ho, _no,_ I am not being dragged into this,” he waved them away. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about Thorin incorporating him into the Dwarven shenanigans since they had embraced on the Carrock, but _this_ was too much to ask.

“Come on, Bilbo!” Bofur coaxed, catching his wrist and tugging him gently.  
  
“It’ll be fun, we’ll be easy on you,” Kíli winked at his brother.  
  
“I’ll be having none of your Dwarven mischief, thank you very much, I am quite comfortable to remained right he-whoa!” Bofur pulled him to his feet, tugging him over to another chorus of laughter.

“Well, now you’re here,” Fíli brandished his swords.

“Bebother all of you,” Bilbo grumbled, pulling his sword from its sheath. “I don’t want to do this,” he looked to Thorin for support, but the Prince’s gaze was too piercing, too concentrated to contend with.  
  
“Spread your feet out and lift the tip of your sword,” Thorin told him. “Your center of gravity is low, so don’t drop your hands.”  
  
His heart began to race against his sternum, blood coursing through his veins as he did what he was told. The stance felt somewhat unnatural, but so did the leather hilt in his clammy palms.  
  
“Bend your knees, if you lock them you’ll fall.”

Thorin’s instruction made him laugh: of _course_ he’d fall - he wasn’t a warrior.  
  
“A life and death situation is not funny, Bilbo.”  
  
If his heart wasn’t about to explode before, it certainly began a war drum beat when Thorin said his _first name_. Every time took him by surprise.

“Okay, alright,” he tried to steady his nerves, hands shaking.  
  
“When Fíli hits lift your sword and brace your knuckles against the flat of the blade. _Don’t_ stick your fingers up or you’ll-” His nephew moved before he could finish his sentence and Bilbo did what he was told, falling to the dirt but _certainly_ defending himself.  
  
“It worked!” The muscles in his arm felt oddly tingly in the impact and the roar of laughter from the Dwarves filled a bubble of joy in his stomach. “Huh?” A hand grabbed his jacket and lifted him to his feet. “Oh…”  
  
Thorin stood behind him, so close he could feel the brush of his mail against the back of his coat.  
  
 _I’m going to die of a heart attack. This is the end of me. I don’t need sword lessons, I need lessons in how to handle Thorin Oakenshield’s affection._

“Relax, you won’t be able to react as quickly if you’re tense.” Bilbo must have stiffened because Thorin rubbed his shoulder with a thumb, his other hand at Bilbo’s elbow. “Walking you through will be easier.”  
  
Bilbo hung his head, wanting to hide, wanting to dig a hole and bury himself in it and never come out. His heart was torn between shame and embarrassment that he couldn’t even be trusted to follow instructions.  
  
“Everyone starts somewhere,” Thorin said softly, breath tickling Bilbo’s ear. “You’re brave for even trying.”  
  
 _I can’t handle this._

“Fíli strike in three,” Thorin told his nephew.

 _I cannot handle this.  
  
_ “Tuck your right elbow against your hip and lift the left as he moves, that will deflect the weight,” Thorin’s boot moved Bilbo’s foot just slightly and the Hobbit did as he was told, Thorin’s weight and hands keeping him steady. “Good, drop the tip and shift your elbow _up!”_ He shifted Bilbo’s stance easy and Fíli’s next hit slid away to the side.  
  
“I… I did it…” Bilbo said, awestruck. “I did it!” He looked up at Thorin and found affection looking back at him. He sighed, but couldn’t catch his breath again, searching the Prince’s eyes.  
  
“Are we going to go again?” Kíli asked. “I want to try!”  
  
“Try slicing my fingers off?” Bilbo turned back, still trying to recover from his shock.  
  
He couldn’t say he didn’t enjoy the attention Thorin gave, starting to expect the motions of the boys’ attacks with Thorin’s lips at his ear and hands on his arms. He also couldn’t say that the press of armor against his spine or the occasional scrape of the Prince’s beard against his neck was unpleasant _either_. He stepped when he was told, turning his foot to support himself, nearly slipping under the weight of his thoughts.  
  
“Parry him down to the left,” Thorin murmured. “Then put your weight on your left foot and _swing_.”  
  
“Swing?” Bilbo echoed, turning the flat of his sword and letting Kíli stumble. Thorin moved him and he did as he was told, cutting air in a clean arc and sending Kíli to his rear in the dirt - hearing the cheers from the company.  
  
“Haha!” Bilbo laughed triumphantly, straightening his shoulders. “I won?” He looked up at Thorin expectantly.  
  
“You won,” he nodded and Bilbo stabbed the air, grinning like mad. “Congratulations.”

His joy continued for several hours, recounting the story the others had just witnessed at their request, until everyone had turned in and he was left to sitting by the fire, looking at the sword in his hands.

“You did well today,” Thorin sat beside Bilbo, elbows on his knees.  
  
“I… would not have been able to do it without you behind me,” Bilbo admitted, handing his blade over when Thorin offered his hand.  
  
“Well, then it is a good thing I will never be far,” Bilbo’s heart missed an ever vital beat - a beat he would willingly give to Thorin - when the Prince smiled.

_He smiled for me._

“Likely you will be in front of me,” Bilbo chased his breath again, clearing his throat.

“I will make very sure you can handle yourself before you walk into your next fight. I won’t risk losing you.” He said it so assuredly it was unnerving.

Bilbo sat there for a long moment, searching his face for answers, and felt a strange sort of ennui - as if something _should_ be happening, but it certainly _wasn’t_.

He might have lost himself in Thorin’s eyes - learning the rolling shades of blue around the Stygian dark of his pupil, an ocean in an iris - if it wasn’t for the Prince tearing his gaze away and weighing Bilbo’s sword in his hand.  
  
“It is… a good sword. May it serve you well,” he handed it back and rose, as if running from a decision he might regret. “Get some rest, Master Burglar, you will need it.”  
  
“Yes,” Bilbo exhaled, releasing the breath he hadn’t known he was holding, and watched the Dwarf Prince retreat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read this on [tumblr](http://thingsishouldntbedoing.co.vu/tagged/thilbo365).


	5. Day 5 - victory.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How could it be a victory when the victorious were dead? [Canon]

If fear was a vice, it was separating the chambers of his heart, peeling apart layers of cardiovascular tissue, stripping it away until only trembling tendons hung suspended from broken bones. Terror sank, sublimating, into the muscle that pumped his life's blood and left him filled with an empty chill - a broken husk of regret and triumph. 

How could it be a victory when the victorious were dead? 

He stroked the long strands of Thorin's hair back from his face, as if a tender touch could breathe life into his body once more, and whispered to him - soft and empty words that were meant only to dam the flow of tears. 

How could it be triumph when his King lay on ice with blood in his lungs and tears on his lashes? 

Only the living could be victors. 

The living reaped the benefits of the dead, the living honored for a day, the living earned the rights the dead should claim - how could Thorin Oakenshield be remembered as anything but a casualty? 

"To them... You will always be King..." 

The words sounded as hollow as his chest felt; as cold and as uncaring as the snow that fell in the quiet of Ravenhill. 

"I loved you." 

His voice cracked around the burn in his throat - a bitter warmth that brought no comfort to heaving lungs and quivering heartstrings. 

It was a broken and misguided warmth that burned like dragon fire and left him equally destroyed - doubled and sobbing and screaming silently to himself over the dull roar of the battle below him. 

"I love you. I love you. I love you." 

He said it again and again until the words slurred against each other and the saltine taste of tears poisoned his tongue. His words were a desperate prayer pressed through cracked lips, a spell to recover the lost and broken, a hope beyond hope that love could restore flesh - but Thorin Oakenshield did not move. 

A victor he was not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out this fic on [tumblr](http://thingsishouldntbedoing.co.vu/tagged/thilbo365)


	6. Day 6 - The Flower Shop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Modern AU] Thorin lives above a flower shop and discovers he has an allergy, when he finds out the owner is too cute to argue with he lowers himself to buying a flower a day until he discovers what it is he's allergic to.

There was nothing wrong with his new apartment. It had one huge room with beautiful wood floors and windows on each wall, a comfortable brown leather couch, and space for a queen bed - though he would have preferred a king. The kitchenette was just enough to make coffee, the bathroom barely enough to shower in, and the view of the city lights was _more_ than enough for when he made his way up to the rooftop balcony to read in the evenings.

Oh yes, it also smelled like flowers ninety percent of the time - what with being above a flower shop. Though he did spend the other ten percent wishing it didn’t smell so much like burnt food.

That particular morning, however, he had detected a new problem entirely - one that had him coughing and sniffling as he made his way toward the gurgling coffeemaker.  
  
“What the _hell_ has that shop got now?” When he spoke his voice sounded rough, brittle to his own ears, mucus happily settling onto his vocal chords despite his repeated attempts to clear his throat.  
  
This had been going on for three days. _Three_ miserable days of attempting to pretend that he wasn’t _dying_ of an allergic reaction.

Thorin had half a mind to march down the stairs and smash all the windows of the flower shop and beat the owner senseless with his own blooms in what would be a rather satisfying act of revenge - at least until the headline: “Allergy Crazed Man Mortally Wounds Flower Shop Owner Over Irresponsible Blossom Choices” appeared in the newspapers.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately for him, the more sensible part of his mind won over and he pulled on appropriate clothing before descending into the cool spring air.  


* * *

 

Bilbo hummed as he flitted between bouquets, singing to each flower in the empty storefront. He liked mornings: after all the morning wedding arrangements were distributed and before the lunch rush of lovers buying forgiveness and a chance at another warm night. 

However, it seemed his calm morning was over when the bell at the front door jingled.

“I’ll be with you in a moment!” He wiped his hands from cutting stems and shut the water off, making his way out into the open. “Oh! Those are Gloxinia!” He noticed his new customer touching the petals of one of the plants near the front door. “Just got them in this morning, a little early for summer, but -”  
  
He couldn’t help but falter when the man looked up, swallowing against the pulse that leapt in his throat. Bilbo started to wonder how long his mouth had been hanging open when the guest tilted his head just slightly, a condescending - and undoubtedly sexy - smirk crawling over neatly manicured features.  
  
“I uh… Did… May I help you?” He snapped his mouth shut and frowned just slightly, knitting his brows.

This man didn’t look like the usual customers - dressed in jeans, a thick cardigan and noticeably well maintained brown boots - and he certainly didn’t seem as if he’d just stopped in between work hours. There was something _too_ casual about him that Bilbo couldn’t place, something in the way his long hair was pulled back in a ponytail, or the fact that a golden cuff clung to the edge of his right ear. Or it might have been the fact that he was sniffling as if he’d caught a terrible cold.

The silence was overwhelming for a moment and Bilbo tried to look anywhere but at the man’s bright blue eyes, grinning awkwardly despite himself. He finally decided it was worthless to continue to wait for the apparent spectre that had appeared in his shop - turning to take care of the flowers he’d neglected in the back.  
  
“I… need some flowers…” But it came out more like ‘ _Ah neet sub flour._ ’

“Well, then you have obviously come to the right place,” Bilbo answered as patiently as he could. “What can I help you with?”  
  
“Ah justh neet sumthig for my flad.”  
  
“You need something for your flat? Something cheerful?”  
  
“Justh one flour.”  
  
“Oookay…” Bilbo took a moment to settle the giggles that threatened to spill into his voice, since this man seemed desperate to be taken seriously. “Uh, how about tulips? We just received a new batch of variegated tulips?”  
  
“Yes,” his customer said quickly. “Some ob thothe.”  
  
The man paid with a credit card and snatched the flowers up in their tissue paper, marching back out the front door as quickly as he had come in - leaving Bilbo to stare blankly at the receipt.  
  
“Thorin… that’s a nice name,” he murmured.

Of course he never expected Thorin to return the next morning.  
  
“Ih wasn’ tha’.”  
  
Bilbo wasn’t quite sure he understood, but two sales in two days to the same person was bound to be a good omen, yes?  
  
“Well, we do have some camellias that just came in for a wedding! I… they’re fairly rare, but I-”  
  
“Thad’s fine.”  
  
His customer picked up his flowers once again, this time glancing at the white petals, lingering to look over Bilbo’s face.  
  
“Is there… anything else I can do for you?” Bilbo offered.  
  
 _Or maybe you could explain to me why you keep coming in here?_  
  
“No, thag you.” Thorin turned and vanished out the door, cradling his bouquet like a small child.  
  
He came again, at exactly the same time, the next day - and every day after. Bilbo sold him flower after flower. He began to choose and cut them before Thorin even arrived - forsythia, lavender roses, a beautiful choice of stock blooms and white violets in their pots - flowers that he admired and pruned and offered.  
  
Thorin began to stay longer, to ask questions, and Bilbo delighted in explaining - and in showing - how bouquets were chosen or how they were cut or how to maintain potted plants. 

Each day of every week had a bright spot, a time between the rush of the morning weddings and the hustle of the afternoon lovers, where he took a breath and worked while Thorin sat and drank coffee.  
  
Bilbo learned that the strange customer lived above the shop, that he had nephews and a sister, that he worked from home as a financial advisor and personal trader.

He learned that Thorin liked white flowers the best and sent him home with gardenias.

And one night, after a month of flowers and stolen moments, he learned that his customer was far more kind than he had expected.  
  
“I saw your light was on,” Thorin said with the same flat, allergy stricken voice that Bilbo knew all too well now.  
  
“I have a big wedding tomorrow morning and two funerals…” he answered, not looking up from his work.  
  
“I thought… you might like to take a break. I brought pizza.”

He heard the clink of beer bottles and the scent of thick cheese and salty pepperoni reached him above those of calla lilies and orchids.

“You’re a godsend,” he relented and washed his hands. “What… What’s this?” He circled around the counter to see a potted plant sitting on a stool normally reserved for customers.  
  
“You said once… that you… always liked ambrosias.” Thorin said, cracking the lid off his ale.  
  
“Am-Ambrosia?” His breath caught in his throat and he picked up the flowers, examining the painted stoneware. When he looked back up he found that Thorin’s eyes hadn’t moved and he tried to hide the flush in his cheeks behind the petals, trying to force his own gaze away. There was always something intense about his customer’s eyes, something piercing and disarming that made his heart race and his skin tingle, and this moment was no different.  
  
It was as if he was trying to say something.

“These are beautiful, Thorin,” he said at a whisper. “I don’t know how to thank you…”  
  
“You don’t have to.”  
  
Bilbo wondered if the curl of Thorin’s lip was nerves, if the intensity of his gaze was a desire to be understood, and desperately hoped these flowers meant what he thought they did.  
  
“Thorin, do you… know what ambrosias mean?”  
  
The softening of the other man’s face, the way his pupils dilated just slightly in the half-light of the flower shop, the slight parting of his lips - things that Bilbo didn’t miss - made his knees weak.  
  
“I do.”  
  
He might have dropped them, his beautiful new plant and its lovely little pot, if it wasn’t for Thorin’s intervention - an intervention that found them standing toe to toe and almost nose to nose.  
  
“You are… very tall,” he didn’t dare raise his voice above a whisper, lest he break the spell, because he saw in the eyes he had so coveted a warm affection and a warmer desire.  
  
He had always thought, all his life, that he would grow old alone. He had always assumed he would be making bouquets for others’ happiness and sorrow and never for his own - but when their lips met and when he wound his arms around Thorin’s neck and felt his embrace returned…

Well, there was no doubt that for once he had been making his own.

He just hadn’t known it.

  

* * *

 

 

**Concerning the flowers:**

  
When this had all began, Thorin had given little thought to just how many flowers he would end up buying… or what he would do with them all… so when he led Bilbo up to his apartment, he was not expecting _quite_ the reaction he received.  
  
“Oh my goodness…”  
  
He had grown so used to his surroundings that it took him a moment to understand just exactly what was happening, watching Bilbo walk to the dining table and run his hand over the tabletop.  
  
“I’ve been _wondering_ what you were doing with them all!” He said with wonderment, looking around.  
  
“Oh, yes. I… it felt a shame to throw them all away…” Thorin murmured.  
  
The apartment was littered with blooms: potted flowers lined the windowsills, cut flowers soaked water in any container he could find to put them in (admittedly he was running out of cups), old flowers hung from coat hooks to dry, and still others were awaiting their fate in Thorin’s sink - devoid of dirty dishes and filled with water.  
  
“This is incredible!” Bilbo laughed and Thorin smiled weakly. “Absolutely incredible!”  
  
Thorin wasn’t sure the flowers littering his apartment were all that incredible, but Bilbo’s smile certainly was.  


Thorin would later learn that a flower called _cyclamen_ was behind his allergies.

A flower, Bilbo explained, that had once been known as a funeral flower, whose ultimate meaning was goodbye. A flower that Bilbo had ordered, and promptly forgotten about, for a customer that never returned.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flower Meanings (In Order of Appearance):
> 
>  _GLOXINIA_ \- Love at First Sight  
>  _TULIP Variegated_ \- Beautiful Eyes  
>  _CAMELLIA White_ \- You're Adorable  
>  _FORSYTHIA_ \- Anticipation  
>  _ROSE Lavender_ \- Enchantment  
>  _STOCK_ \- Bonds of Affection  
>  _VIOLET White_ \- Let's Take a Chance on Happiness  
>  _JONQUIL_ \- Love Me  
>  _GARDENIA_ \- You're Lovely: Secret Love  
>  _LILY Calla_ \- Beauty  
>  _ORCHID_ \- Love; Beauty  
>  _AMBROSIA_ \- Your Love is Reciprocated  
>  _CYCLAMEN_ \- Resignation and Good-bye


	7. Day 7 - Echo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In honor of the screener gifs that are appearing everywhere I wrote more sad thing. Poor Bilbo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This is a bit experimental and unedited so it might seem weird._

Would he still remember the color of his eyes? In one year or five years or ten years? In a decade would he still remember how larkspurs and forget-me-nots danced in the sunlight, bright and beautiful against the dark of his pupils?

In a week would he forget how Thorin’s once powerful hand felt in his? How feeble it had seemed? How he reached for his Hobbit in his dying moments? In a month would he no longer recall the warmth of Thorin’s skin or the texture of his beard?

How long would it take before he forgot? Until he was no longer tortured by the sound of his voice or the chink of his armor?

Would it take months? Would it take years? What would go first?

Perhaps the length of his eye lashes would go first? Then his proud nose and the perfect line of his lips. His voice might fade into an echo of an echo of an echo.

The individual curls of his hair would melt together until he bore a dark halo and all Bilbo saw was the shape of his face in a starless night.

His face.

The angle of his jaw and the shape of his cheekbones and the furrow of his brow.

But his eyes...

His eyes.

How long would it take to forget a garden of hues cast bright in dying sunlight? How long would it be before Bilbo stopped planting lilacs and hydrangeas to replace the dense blues of the eyes of a Dwarf King laying dead beneath his mountain?

Days fade to weeks fade to years fade to decades.

An echo of an echo of an echo.

Blues mute and mull but never fade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> read this fic on [tumblr](http://thingsishouldntbedoing.co.vu/tagged/thilbo365).


	8. Day 8 - mischief afoot (Part I of ?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo makes a discovery Thorin is going to regret. [radiorcrist](http://radiorcrist.tumblr.com) wanted Thorin + ticklish feet. [Canon AU]

He slouched further in the armchair, shifting his arm against the top of the book he had braced against his hip, watching Bilbo bustle past with the smallest ponytail he’d ever seen and a dust rag fluttering behind him like a war banner.  
  
“Is this a Hobbit thing?” Thorin finally managed when Bilbo slowed at his ottoman and waggled a finger at him in protest.  
  
“You are not King Under the Mountain _here_. You could _help_.”  
  
“I have never been good at cleaning,” Thorin looked back at his book, slumping against the armrest.  
  
“What _are_ you good for?” Bilbo touched the bottom of his foot and he almost screeched.  
  
“Don’t!” Thorin fought the urge to kick him, shuddering under the feather-light touch of those soft fingers, a touch that had him curling his toes and pulling his feet off the ottoman.  
  
“Oh!” The utter delight that spilled onto the Hobbit’s soft features sent a spike of terror into his heart. “Oh goodness! Are your feet ticklish?”  
  
“ _No_ , it felt _strange_.” Thorin tried to rub the feeling out against the leg of the footrest. “ _Mahal!_ Don’t touch my feet.”  
  
“They are such strange feet,” Bilbo said gently and Thorin dropped his guard to prop his ankles back up again. “Dwarves have silly feet.”  
  
“Hobbits have feet that are too big for them with wooly slippers that grow out the top. I’m not sure how everyone _else_ could have strange FEE!” He stood upright, and upset his book to the floor, shivering for a moment as Bilbo pranced in place - apparently proud of himself. “What did I say about touching my feet?” He groaned, rubbing the arch of his foot with the heel of his hand.  
  
“You said _don’t_ ,” Bilbo smiled slyly and sidled away to finish his cleaning.  
  
Thorin spent the rest of the day fiercely guarding his feet from Bilbo’s nimble fingers, shoving them under the ottoman each time he passed.

“Thorin, will you come here, please?” Bilbo called from down the hall and suspicion built in the Dwarf’s chest.  
  
“What do you want?”  
  
“Thorin Oakenshield! Don’t act like I’m going to behead you if you come into the other room.”  
  
He sighed and rose from his seat, stretching luxuriously, and made his way into the entry hall. “What?” He wasn’t expecting the splash that met his toes, watching a small flood of water approach the front door. “What!?”  
  
“The shut off valve won’t work!” Bilbo was standing outside - what Thorin called the utility room - with water lapping at his ankles.  
  
“Did you just leave the water running!?” He hurried over.  
  
“Are you _deaf_? I said the valve won’t shut off! Do something about it!”  
  
“What do you want _me_ to do?”  
  
“Fix it! You’re a Dwarf, you keep saying that your people are _so_ good with - _THORIN_ IT’S STARTING TO FLOW INTO THE DEN!”  
  
They stood there bickering until Thorin was talked - _browbeaten_ \- into walking _barefoot_ out into the garden to find the external pipe and stopper it, fighting down a grin when he returned to find Bilbo standing in the entry clucking his tongue.  
  
“I’ll find the crack in the pipe, but you’ll still need a proper plumber,” he said, almost pleased with the muddy tracks he left behind.  
  
He spent much of the next few hours kneeling beneath the sink, cursing his luck and maybe even Bilbo. His luck because _wasn’t he supposed to be King right now_? And Bilbo, because _he had known Thorin couldn’t resist fixing the plumbing himself_.

“How’s it going?” He cursed Bilbo twice over for the horribly casual tone creeping into his voice, nearly seeing the smug little nose wiggle.  
  
“Fine… The seam’s cracked, probably froze over the winter when you didn’t use this room... I’ll have to insuLATE!” Bilbo’s finger up the arch of his foot startled him so badly he jumped, cracking his head on the sink bowl above him.  
  
“Oh Thorin I’m so sorry!” Bilbo apologized above Thorin’s swearing, stifling a laugh.  
  
Needless to say, Thorin spent the rest of the day with an icepack on his head and a chip on his shoulder - and Bilbo never touched his feet again. Despite continued temptation.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
>  TBC???   
>  **


	9. Day 9 - Normalcy (FMF #2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know exactly what this is. Do you really need a summary? Before he knew it their mouths were sealed and he was coiling in fingers into Thorin’s long hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by [this post](http://breadsports.tumblr.com/post/106078131770/thank-god-youre-here-eta-almost-tagged-this-as) which is actually really cute and fluffy but I???????

There had been weeks upon weeks of recovery, of Thorin struggling to survive against all odds, and many days where Bilbo thought he might not make it.  
  
Now, walking back into the beautiful quarters Thorin called home, Bilbo felt more at peace. They hadn’t spoken much since the battle, not except soft words exchanged in the flickering firelight and gentle caresses of a worried lover - but they didn’t need to. Perhaps they should have spent the last months talking about what had occurred on the journey, what had happened between them on the ramparts, or what Thorin had said that day on the ice - but he loathed to bring it up again.

That was behind them, wasn’t it?  
  
He had left Thorin sleeping, pleased to find the same gentle silence when he returned from his bath. It had become a ritual for him: wait until Thorin fell asleep, bathe, and return to warm himself in front of the fire.  
  
This time he slowed in pulling the rest of his clothes back on, standing before the hearth to warm the skin of his stomach and chest - taking deep breaths. He might not have realized Thorin was watching him, if it hadn’t been for the soft crinkle of blankets and the almost imperceptible sigh from behind him.

“Thorin!” He turned, hiding behind his shirt.  
  
“You don’t need to hide,” Thorin said roughly, eyes dark. “I have seen much of you already.”  
  
The frayed edges of Thorin’s voice struck him deeply, sinking claws of desire into his belly and taking hold. It had been a long time since he had felt his lover’s touch as anything more than reassuring caresses and flesh beneath bandages.  
  
“You’re wounded,” Bilbo’s mouth was so dry he almost couldn’t force the words out.  
  
“I didn’t say anything,” Thorin murmured. “I’m just watching you.”  
  
He lowered the fabric of his shirt and walked closer. He knew what the look deep in Thorin’s eyes meant, yet he still extended his hand and let it rest against the rough pads of his lover’s hand - closing his eyes when Thorin stroked the inside of his wrist.  
  
“This doesn’t feel like watching,” he allowed himself to be coaxed onto the edge of the bed, letting Thorin’s free hand stroke down his side. 

“I wanted you close,” he pulled Bilbo’s hand over and pressed soft kisses to his knuckles.  
  
Before he knew it their mouths were sealed and he was coiling in fingers into Thorin’s long hair.  
  
Somewhere between his determination and understanding that Thorin was still in no condition for sex and the rough fingers that convinced him otherwise he lost any and all ability to reason with himself.

It had been too long.  
  
“You don’t have to,” the sound of Thorin’s voice shook him to the core, the honesty that rang within it struck his heart and sank in.  
  
“Shut up."

Bilbo coiled his fingers around his cock, despite Thorin's feigned protests and half laughter, and positioned himself with all the precision of a practiced lover. He knew what Thorin wanted, knew what _he_ would have preferred - to be enveloped in the scent of his neck and the warmth of rough hair scraping his soft skin - but they both needed this.

He needed to feel the thick heat of the mountain king sliding deep into him. He needed to hear their groans mingle again when he had taken all he could. He needed to feel the ache of his slender hips spread wide around the waist of his lover.

Thorin's blunt nails left marks on his thighs, his hands splayed and holding onto the Hobbit as if his life depended on it - and when Bilbo moved, those hands dimpled the muscle and pulled him back down.

Each slow stroke, long and deep, had them shuddering - had Bilbo bracing himself against the King's uninjured bicep. Every movement drew Thorin's name from his lips, every cant of Thorin's hips - desperate for more friction - had him crying out.

He tilted his body back and his hips forward, thankful for the relief of Thorin's hand on him - pulling and curling and tight. Somewhere at the edges of his perception he thought he heard Thorin speak, soft and low and rumbling - words that he felt in his bones but couldn’t translate if he tried.  
  
This was a moment of connectedness, a moment of absolute bliss, that could only be shared. This was not a moment of pure carnal desire - though they had been through those - this was _proof_ that they were still alive. This was a harmonious culmination of emotions that they’d held back for months.

This was a final return to normalcy.

 

 

 

 

 


	10. Day 10 - succumb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [hobbitunderthemountain](http://hobbitunderthemountain.tumblr.com/) wanted some Thorin + goldsickness being taken care of by Bilbo. [Canon]

**I.**

He knew something wasn’t right from the moment Smaug had died. He watched Thorin closely, traced his steps like a ghost, and waited.   
  
The first night Thorin beckoned him and laid out a roll of furs for him.

The first night he laid close to his lover and listened to him sing lost songs in a half-forgotten tongue.
    
    
      ****
    

**II.**

The second was harder. The second day found him on approach with a bowl in his hand and a prayer on his lips, because the others didn’t dare come near the King.

He asked Thorin if he would sleep and earned a gentle dismissal, relieved when Thorin took his stew - less so when all he did was stare at it as if food was something foreign and new.

“Please eat,” he murmured. The please seemed to reach him, seemed to humble him, and a flood of relief had Bilbo’s knees weak and his heart pounding against the cage it was held in.

The second night he watched him watch his gold, the bed as cold as if he wasn’t there.  
  


**III.**

The third night Bilbo was alone. The third night he rose to the soft sound of shifting gold and found Thorin tracing his steps around and around - a wolf on the hunt. Bilbo pulled the fabric of a blanket with him this time, hoped perhaps it could help, and approached with anxiety pulling at his heartstrings.  
  
He might have thought he was staring into Smaug’s teeth once more - shaken under the suspicious stare he was fixed with.   
  
“Thorin, you haven’t slept in days,” Bilbo pleaded and took a step closer.

He didn’t need someone to tell him what he saw in Thorin’s eyes.   
  
 _“A strain of madness runs deep in that family.”_  
  
He reached out to him, throat tight and eyes burning when Thorin succumbed to his touch and closed his tired eyes.  
  
 _“Can you swear Thorin Oakenshield will not also fall?”_  
  
“Please no,” Bilbo whispered.

_Please don’t let me lose you._

The third night he slept alone.


	11. Day 11 - The Kissing Booth (Part I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [College AU] Bilbo is fussy and Thorin runs a kissing booth.

_No. Ridiculous._

I am certain there is an unwritten requirement that every story about me, that is Bilbo Baggins, must begin with those words.

“No, this is absolutely ridiculous.”

Yet somehow I always managed to get sucked into things regardless of my protests. This time it was being pulled along to a charity function as if I were some kind of _monkey_ to be led around on a leash. 

I was never sure of what they were going to plan next, never certain what new shenanigans I will be forcefully led into - but somehow their geniality always won me over.

Call me a sucker for good personalities.

The children passing by must have had seen in me a kindred spirit, because they looked up with their liquid eyes and watery noses and pouted - as if to say ‘Yes, I understand. I don’t want to be here either.’ As if they understood how much I wished to throw a tantrum and be swept off back to my room to curl up under my blankets and read something, anything, anything at all.

I would rather be reading treatises on the importance of understanding modern political indictments, than walking through the scents of popcorn and cheap aftershave that hung in the air of this high school gymnasium.

“Here we are!”

If there was ever a time to use a music note as a form of punctuation, it was _now._ Bofur tweeted like a lark when he was overly pleased with himself. Sometimes I half expected him to burst into fully feathered pride.  
  
“Where?” I almost wanted to slap him. _Almost._  
  
“Ta da!”  
  
About that music note.

“This is a… kissing booth?” I prayed for my good sense to outweigh my curiosity, wanting to turn on my heel and leave. What an outdated and absolutely _passé_ way to make money. “Is this some kind of joke?”  
  
I wasn’t sure I _appreciated_ how Balin snickered from my other side - the second demon that had dragged me away from my warm house in the middle of January - feeling a bit pinned between them.  
  
“Just you wait,” Balin assured me, patting my arm.  
  
Suddenly anxiety began to set in. Was I going to be asked to participate? Did they know I had never been kissed? Was this some half-brained idea to force me into kissing a stranger for their own amusement?  
  
We waited for an eternity and a half, with anxiety and dread dripping off of me in what, I thought, must have been a palpable aura - at least until the line in front of us parted.  
  
“Oh…” disappointment dropped into my voice when I saw it was Dís - pretty though she was.  
  
What on earth was I expecting?  
  
She looked up at me, standing a few patrons back, and leaned over her shoulder to talk to one of her sorority sisters. Of _course_ she wouldn’t want to kiss _me_ , we’d been friends since Freshman orientation. I studied the ground, slowly making my way to the seat, and wondered how many people had come in and paid their five dollars for a sweet kiss from a cute girl - wishing the swirling in my stomach would stop.  
  
Bofur nudged me, elbow sharp against my spine, and I finally looked up, “Oh, fuck.”  
  
Eyes. Of course eyes. Everybody has eyes, you tell me. But _these_ eyes reflected the colors of a lake in Mexico I’d once seen - fresh blue water of a hundred shades with rocky shores and colors so pigmented they couldn’t possibly be real.  
  
“Five dollars.”

Was breathless really a word people used? Because at that moment, when all the realities and answers to the universe came crashing down into my head, I was _breathless._  
  
“Pay the man, Bilbo,” Balin said, voice reaching me through the sounds of crashing waves and lapping waters.  
  
“Pay? Pay! Yes, of course I’ll… I’ll p-pay…”

Here I was, sitting before the older brother of one of my best friends and struggling to control the racing pulse in my heart - praying that I wouldn’t choke on my own air - and forgetting that I had to _pay_ to kiss him.

To this day I’m still not sure how much money I shoved into the bucket, but the eyes laughed at me - even if no laughter came from their owner.

“You don’t have to do it.” Finally the voice laughed as well, the voice I knew _oh_ so well.  
  
“I paid for it. Kiss me, Thorin, or I’ll complain to the management.”  
  
 _Where_ did all that spice come from? I was not demanding nor abrasive in any way, but I suppose if I paid for something, I damn well better get it - of course the demand had nothing to do with the fact that I was about to touch mouths with someone I had dreamed about since the first time I’d laid eyes on him.  
  
I wouldn’t get another chance to kiss Thorin Oakenshield for the rest of my miserable existence - I was damn well going to kiss him _now._  
  
Except… he kissed me.

He _kissed_ me. With his fingers under my chin and the scrape of his unshaven beard on my skin and the soft, slight chap of his lips on mine.  
  
I must have paid a lot because he leaned in and I felt the slightest bite at my bottom lip and I _melted_ \- clutching my fingers into the fabric of my jeans and praying that the heat in my face wouldn’t burn straight through my skin - into opening my mouth and letting him tilt my head.  
  
“Time’s up.”  
  
I heard Dís’ voice somewhere beneath the noise of my own heartbeat, but by that point I was nearly out of my chair, holding my breath somewhere deep inside of me, too stunned to believe - and too far gone to care about _time_ or _money_.  
  
He drew away though, lips lingering on mine a fraction of a second - a fraction of a second that had me _nearly_ whimpering (I was Belladonna’s son, _not_ about to whimper) - and smirked.

I didn’t have to pay for the second kiss.

 


	12. Day 12 - Lost in Translation (Part I of II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Modern AU] Bilbo's a traveling professor with a communication error. Thorin is just kind enough to help him.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake…” he thumbed through the pages of his dictionary - a little battered with bent corners and notes and highlights, all the signs of a well loved book - praying the waitress’s patience would win out over her bemused frustration with his inability to speak German.

“Was ist denn das Problem?” A warm, deep voice interrupted his mutterings, the language familiar to his ear. Someone was speaking German with an English accent.  
  
“Es gibt Kommunikationsschwierigkeiten **.** ” He could hear amusement on her voice and flushed scarlet.  
  
Bilbo was suddenly very embarrassed and very frustrated, so much so, that he desperately wished he could burst into tears. Instead he looked up to find a man with a long ponytail and a neatly trimmed beard standing beside the waitress.   
  
“Sprechen Sie englisch? Bitte erklären Sie ihm, dass wir keine Kreditkarten annehmen!”  
  
“Natürlich, kein Problem,” quite suddenly the language flowed into one Bilbo could readily understand. “She’s trying to tell you that this cafe doesn’t take credit cards.”  
  
“Oh, thank God…” relief burst into his chest and he  _really did_  want to cry. “I thought it was something else.”  
  
“No, no, it was very simple… But in exchange…” he looked around at the tables. “Would you mind if I took this seat? All the other tables are full.”  
  
Bilbo’s heart leapt into his throat, “No, go ahead, that’s fine.”  
  
“Bitte ein Rührei mit zwei Brötchen und dazu Kaffee. Schwarz.” The man said to the waitress as he sat down, placing his phone on the table.  
  
Bilbo shook his head, wondering when his mouth had dropped open, and finally moved to hand his money to the waitress, smiling sheepishly. For a few moments, at least, he had a table companion.  
  
“You’re new to Germany?” His new companion asked, a quirk of a smile on his lips that seemed distinctly condescending - though perhaps not entirely  _unfriendly_.  
  
“I came here on exchange from another university,” he answered. “It would seem my German was not as good as I had thought.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “My name is Bilbo, by the way.”  
  
“Thorin.  _Pleasure_ ,” he offered his hand and Bilbo took it, enjoying the hard warmth of his savior’s hand in his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out this fic on [tumblr](http://thingsishouldntbedoing.co.vu/tagged/thilbo365)


	13. Day 13 - Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Canon] “Tell me, Master Baggins, has anyone ever shown you how the world moves?”

The descent into madness was achingly slow.

The ticking of a clock.

The susurrations of a bird’s wings.

The sounds bounced against each other and raked against his eardrums above the faintest tinnitus - a high pitched humming that he’d carried since his hours on the battlefield outside Erebor.

Against a wall movement flickered and he jerked his head to the side - seeing ghosts in the shadows. In the thunderous quiet he heard the echoed beating of great wings.

Bilbo rolled in his bed, casting an arm over the empty space beside him, and ran his fingers through his hair.

Another anxious night. Another wasted hour.

If nightmares were made of fragments of a fractured heart, Bilbo wanted no part in them. If running for his life from the cracked blades of Orcs and the sounds of shattering bones was the stuff of his memories - if they were _truth_ \- why did he feel the need to sit up in bed and pull Sting’s blade from its sheath from beneath his pillow just to feel its weight in his palm?  
  
Shouldn’t he accept _truth_ as it was?

Why should he fasten a Dwarven cloak around his shoulders and walk out his front door, taking in cold winter air like a drowned man?

If nightmares weren’t to be feared, why did sleep elude him?  


Had nightmares really chased him out into the cold? Nightmares he could wake from. Nightmares couldn’t claw at him when his eyes were open. Nightmares he could shake off.  
  
Reality, on the other hand, was vivid and visceral - and _oh_ so painful.

In dreams he walked over the star soaked earth and passed over the cold ground outside the evergreen walls of the Lonely Mountain. He heard the rush of the water beneath a broken bridge and felt the whispering breeze of the mountains - walking a path that would become a battlefield.

In reality he was alone, walking the dirt paths of the Shire, feeling the stones beneath his feet and the tickle of grass against his ankles - pretending they were the desolated rock and ice of the Lonely Mountain’s tundra. He wandered down the quiet paths until he reached the brook, a branch off the Brandywine River that wound through the center of Hobbiton, and turned to follow it.

As he padded through the grass towards Bywater he slowed, stopping to look up at the curvature of the world and the white light of ages past. There was a peace in what the Elves saw in the world, peace in how they perceived even the smallest details. He tried to understand that, tried to emulate it. 

He had used their skills to memorise the sound of a friend’s footsteps or the angle of a path he had travelled. He had used their sight to seek out the changes in a friend’s attitude or their behaviors. He had learned to rely on his ears because sounds rarely fooled you... but the eyes ever deceived.

Now he used the Elven ways to navigate his own mind. 

He laid out in the grass and curled his fingers around the hilt of his sword and lifted it, pointing the tip to the sky.  
  
Here, under stars shining brightly, with earth beneath his body and the moon hanging heavy in the sky, he could feel almost comfortable.

Here, with cold air in his lungs and the smooth passage of time without clocks or watches to keep him in order, he felt his limbs relax and fall heavy. Here he would watch the world turn as someone he’d known well had taught him.

“ _Tell me, Master Baggins, has anyone ever shown you how the world moves_?” A voice came to him now, as sharp and clear as day. A flick of Sting had his heart aching, for there in the silver steel of the blade, he might have seen the reflection of dark hair and eyes the color of delphiniums.  
  
“One,” he whispered.

One person had sat with him under the night sky and had shown him something he’d never known before - for Hobbits never let their minds wander past the edges of the Shire, nor certainly into the skies. He had never thought that a Dwarf would look to the skies either, not with their desire to delve into earth and stone so deep - yet Thorin saw something in the night sky, something that gave him hope.

Indeed there, beneath the harvest moon, Bilbo had seen hope in Thorin. Hope that had vanished like smoke into the wind the moment he had seen the hoard of gold beneath his mountain.

He had watched Thorin so long and so intently that he had missed what his friend had tried to show him - but gained something much more important.  
  
“I love you,” he said, now, to the stars above him, voice small and heavy with understanding. “I loved you.”  
  
It was a calm sort of understanding that scraped out every emotion in his chest and left him hollow. A feeling of peace in the shadows of the night, where before only fear and war plagued him, that stole his breath in an empty sob.  
  
Here, bathed in moonlight, he mourned.

Not for the first time, not for the last, but wholly and without restraint.

He dropped his sword and buried his mouth into the crook of his elbow to muffle the sounds of his own tears, pressing a hand to his eyes as if he could block out the light - as if he could somehow dam the tears with shaking fingers and a weak heart.

He was, after all, but a small thing in a big world - with a love too great for him to understand. 

A love he had realized too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out this fic on [tumblr](http://thingsishouldntbedoing.co.vu/tagged/thilbo365).


	14. Day 14 - mischief afoot (Part II of ?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Canon] “Pippin told me that Dwarves grant wishes,” Frodo said one day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Kat](http://hobbitunderthemountain.tumblr.com/) requested fluff and [Annie](http://bilboo.tumblr.com/) likes uncle Thorin + Frodo so who am I to disagree?

When Frodo came, all dark curls and eyes the color of sapphires, Thorin couldn’t help but adore him. He knew it was amusing to Bilbo, knew the Hobbit watched them from the doorway to the kitchen, but he paid the Burglar no mind. In Dwarven culture children were considered precious and _adored_. Even as an abdicated King he retained some regality - but around Frodo?

Around Frodo he was putty.

“Pippin told me that Dwarves grant wishes,” Frodo said one day, curling his fingers around Thorin’s braid so that he could climb into his lap, scrambling into the chair with him.   
  
Thorin considered, for a moment, telling the boy off - Peregrin Took was a troublemaker if there ever was one - but he decided swiftly against it. No use crushing the boy’s dreams.  
  
“Did he?” He hummed and adjusted his arm, letting Frodo tuck his small frame into his elbow, lanky limbs curled beneath him. “Well isn’t that interesting?” He looked up at Bilbo to exchange soft smiles, the corners of his mouth turning wry at the twinkle in his Hobbit’s eyes.  
  
“Do you?” Frodo asked breathlessly, touching his beard with gentle fingers.  
  
“Depends on the wish,” Thorin dropped his voice. “Dwarves can be very tricky and you must ask _very_ clearly for what you want.”  
  
“Very like dragons that way,” Bilbo said in an undertone.  
  
Thorin ignored his jab, looking back at his adopted nephew. “You wouldn’t have asked if you didn’t want something, yes? What is your heart’s desire?” He rubbed his beard against the child’s cheek when it neared, cracking a smile at Frodo’s giggle.  
  
“Well, I… I…” Frodo puffed air for a moment, apparently trying very hard to phrase his request correctly. His fingers flexed and curled, winding Thorin’s braid around his hand. “Anything I want?”  
  
“Anything you want,” he confirmed.

He could tell Bilbo was in suspense, pretending he wasn’t paying attention behind his book. Frodo rarely asked for anything, happy with the sun and the earth and whatever presents his uncles offered him - finding presents for holidays was a nightmare. 

Children, innocent as they were, were often prone to hemming and hawing when asked direct questions - especially when they thought that their request might be denied or considered unreasonable - and Frodo was no different. He fiddled with the pages of Thorin’s book and the trim of the Dwarf’s jerkin, thinking hard.

“Frodo, my lad, what is it?” Bilbo asked finally, breaking the tedious silence.

“Can I whisper it to you?” He looked at Thorin. “Does it matter if he hears?”  
  
Thorin couldn’t stop the ridiculous grin that pulled at his cheeks until they ached, “If you want to.” He leaned his head down, shifting his shoulder to let Frodo lean against it.

“I want to go on an adventure,” Frodo said, ever so quietly, cupping his hands around the Dwarf’s ear.

“An adventure?” Thorin asked, just as quietly, and watched Bilbo stifle his smile behind the pages of his book. “Well… that is _quite_ the wish.”  
  
“With Elves and dragons and _trolls_!”  
  
“All the things Thorin _despises_.” Bilbo’s snotty remark was muffled into parchment.  
  
“And what will you give me in return?” His voice rumbled in his chest, catching Frodo before he could go off on a tangent.  
  
“In return?” Frodo tilted his head.  
  
“Yes. Didn’t Peregrin tell you? There is _always_ a price when you make a deal with a Dwarf.”  
  
Frodo’s eyes widened and he hesitated again, running his knuckles affectionately against Thorin’s beard. He seemed to be categorizing just _what_ exactly an adventure would be worth and sorting through all of his worldly possessions for an equivalent.  
  
Then he leaned down and kissed the tip of Thorin’s nose.  
  
“There! Now we go on an adventure!”  
  
Thorin wasn’t sure how long it lasted, but he couldn’t remember a time he’d ever laughed longer or harder.


	15. Day 15 - fascination (Part I of ?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Canon] “I didn’t ask for your opinion, Master Burglar.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> loosely inspired by [YET ANOTHER BREADSPORTS DRAWING](http://breadsports.tumblr.com/post/108085854465/i-drew-a-remix-of-this-iconic-scene-because-nobody)

Thorin didn't let others see him struggle, or at least he tried not to, hands shaking as he tried to peel away the layers of his armor. He was thankful for the quiet corner he'd taken in the lodge, thankful for the heat of the hearth on his aching body,  _thankful_  for the minimal privacy he was allotted from the others.

"Thorin," his burglar's voice interrupted his movements and his fingers slipped on the buckles of his vambrace. "Do you need help?"

"No! I'm fine," he growled over the sloshing of water, glancing to see Bilbo setting down a heavy bowl on a chair.

"You're not fine," Bilbo’s insistence had him scowling. "Let me help you out of your mail, at least? Stubborn old man."

He glanced at the others, watching them sleeping in their kips, then looked back to Bilbo. His Hobbit wasn't one to relent, he knew that, and thus he offered his hands. Surprise curved Bilbo's brow and parted his lips, but it didn't take long for his deft fingers to work Thorin's bracers off.

Bilbo was quiet in the firelight, helping Thorin shrug out of his coat before his hands had their way with the buckles of his mail - the strange intimacy between them calmed Thorin's nerves and the buzzing in his head. The Hobbit had always been dutiful, had always watched from afar, and had always been misjudged. Thorin hadn't thought, after all that had happened in the Goblin tunnels -

(panic, terror,  _Where is Bilbo?_ , shrieking, echoes, fighting for their lives,  _Where is the Hobbit?_ )

\- that he would ever see him again... He had thought Bilbo cowardly, weak for wanting to return home to his comforts, yet here he was with soft fingers peeling away the dirty layers of his clothing with concentration on his brow and the scent of flowers clinging to his damp hair. 

"It's not your fault," Bilbo said softly, startling him from his reverie.

"Come again?" 

"It's not your fault... I don't know, it just..." He set aside the mail and reached for the laces of Thorin’s jerkin.

"You mean Azog?" Thorin knew his face had darkened from the way Bilbo reacted, fingers curling into his palm. 

“Well, I…” he swallowed. “Well,  _that_  was your fault.” He said stubbornly after a moment, throwing Thorin off. “You stupid…  _proud_ …  _stubborn_ …” he bit down on his lip to stifle his words. “You shouldn’t have gone… you let your anger sweep you away and…” Thorin watched him struggle over the words.  
  
Quiet fell again, interrupted only by the crackling of the fire beside them and the snores of the Dwarves across the cabin. 

“Let me wash your wounds,” Bilbo finally murmured. “I’ll cut you out of that tunic if I have to.”  
  
“That won’t be necessary.”  
  
For a second time he caved under the gaze of the burglar, letting him pull the fabric of his tunic up and away. He bit back a groan, lifting his arms as best he could, but Bilbo’s soft gasp was enough to hide it anyway. He could feel the damage with every breath he took - he didn’t need to look.  
  
“It’s not as bad as I thought,” Bilbo said once he’d finally set the tunic aside. His face, no matter how brave he desired to appear, was still pale. “You can barely lift your arms…”  
  
“I didn’t ask for your opinion, Master Burglar.” He watched the Hobbit duck down to fetch the water he’d carried over and dip a clean cloth into it.   
  
“You don’t need to. I offer it willingly.”  
  
Bilbo stopped and seemed to take him in for a moment, eyes moving over the dark violet bruises that had blossomed on his skin. The cloth in his hand dripped onto Thorin’s boot, collecting on the leather and sliding away - indicative of how long the Hobbit stared.   
  
“Is there something else I can do for you?” Thorin asked.  
  
“I…  _We_  could have lost you, you know?” Bilbo murmured, reaching out with a strange fascination in his eyes. “I thought… I...  _we_ had.” The cool press of his fingers against the muscle of Thorin’s chest wasn’t entirely unwelcome, his soft touch sliding up the thick hair and around bruises.  
  
Thorin couldn’t  _quite_  remember the last time an entirely unhindered smile had burst onto his face - but he regretted this one under the pain of a lacerated nose and tender flesh.   
  
“I thought you were supposed to be tending my wounds,” Thorin murmured and Bilbo nearly upset the bowl behind him in his haste to jump back.  
  
“I’m so - you were just -”  
  
Oh how the blush that spilled into his cheeks suited him - sweet and gentle and  _pure_.


	16. Day 16 - This Heavy Crown (FMF #3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Post-BotFA] After the coronation was the best part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a birthday present for [Annie](http://bilboo.tumblr.com)

A day of celebration and drinking has led them here, with Bilbo’s deft fingers on the heavy layers of his ceremonial robes and armor and impassioned kisses that left them both panting. Thorin pulled his gloves off to sink his hands into his Hobbit’s hair, holding him in place as he was freed from the heavy plate that fell to the ground, heavy thunk too-loud against the accompanying slither of velvet and furs.

He was at the mercy of Bilbo’s patience, had been all day - the subtle caresses when no one was looking, the heat in his eyes, the silken Westron affections with desire just beneath them - and he was barely coherent, blinded by need and high off the ceremony that had put the crown atop his head.

“Leave it,” a spark of devious fire burst in his chest when Bilbo spoke, and Thorin paused in his motions to pull the coronet free.

“Leave the crown?” He could hear his own voice bottom out.  
  
“Leave it,” Bilbo insisted.

He obeyed, dropping his hands to let the Hobbit finish undressing him. There was always something so precise about the burglar’s moments, as if he had already planned the kisses and nips and cheekily placed fingers - mapped them in his brain to reduce Thorin to easy prey.

No one else would ever get to see him this way: panting and flushed, rutting against the burglar's slender, talented fingers that painted lights behind his eyes and wound pleasure around his nerves until his own fingers were knotted in the sheets and his voice was hoarse in his throat.

Oh, how sweet Bilbo's voice could be, roughened by desire and dipped low with control, as he pressed kisses along his cock and flicked his tongue over wicked bites he'd left behind - ever moving, relentless in holding Thorin on the edge.

And when his lover filled him, gave him exactly what he'd asked for, he felt the world give way and the weight of the crown fall to nothing - Bilbo's intent all along.

Here, now, he was a lover - body wound together with another's, emotions high and burning, a complex system of nerves and simple pleasure and the sighs and sounds of two people lost in each other.

Here he was no king. Here he was no longer King nor Oakenshield nor brother, uncle, or _son_. Bilbo laid those titles low and made him _more_ with slow thrusts and broken moans and a heat that rose and burned between them - an inferno that swallowed him and left him wanting.

The scrape of teeth on his shoulder, the ruined sound of Bilbo's fractured voice in his ear, slender hands that sought purchase on his thighs; tender details that broke him and shattered the last fragment of his control - casting him into the searing nerves and canting hips of a blissful orgasm.

After, basking in the post-coital halo of soft touches and sloppy, unending kisses, he pressed promises into Bilbo's brow, into his cheeks, into his mouth, until he had all but calmed his own rush of new fears and the newborn suffocation that flooded his mind and tangled together beneath the cool metal of a crown he had once found too heavy - a crown now made modest in the arms of a burglar from the kindly West.

 

 

 

 


	17. Day 17 - [Teaser for] Child of the Kindly West

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Summary for Child of the Kindly West] A bargaining chip falls into the hands of Thorin Oakenshield: he has the chance to remake history and a chance to save that which he loves the most. Death is only a technicality, only another beginning, and his heartbeat is the first note in a symphony that will shake Middle Earth to its core.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So as I had announced a long time ago, _The star above my mast._ is being put on hiatus. This is what will replace it in the coming days.

All of it had lead to this moment. All of this had brought him to this dangerous precipice and left him hanging by the threads of his sanity. The Arkenstone, bright and brilliant before him, was within his grasp. What he had sought for centuries was nestled perfectly into the casing his grandfather had created - the crowning jewel of a kingdom he had seen fall, had seen rise, and had lost to the darkness.  
  
 _Can I let it go?_ He took a breath, each step unsteady. This body was not old and broken, neither was it unsteady nor war-battered nor marred with the cares of the ages - yet it faltered. _He_ faltered. This moment was one that would determine his fate - and not only _his_ fate, but that of millions of others.  
  
“You want this,” he said aloud, voice echoing in the empty halls of Erebor. “This is what you seek more than anything else. All your thoughts are focused on it.” He walked up the stairs, air heavy in his lungs. “How different you think you are from mortals…” he reached out, releasing the clasp and letting the Arkenstone fall into his palm.  
  
 _Yet we are not so different_.  
  
He rolled the stone in his fingers, at once cool and hot to the touch, and watched the light burn from within it. Here it was. For the first time it lay in the curl of his fingers and against the skin of his hand, a temptation and a curse.   
  
“You want this… yet only I can give it to you…” he whispered.   
  
He could almost _feel_ the heat of dragonfire once more, could almost sense the great belly of the beast bellowing above him, yet when he looked over his shoulder, he found nothing - nothing beyond the shadows of dying firelight of an empty city. He was _alone_. In every sense of the word.

“But you will have to wait.”  
  
 _Can I let it go?_ He closed his eyes against the hollow feeling in his chest, against the prickle of fear that crawled up the back of his neck - gelid fingers on his spine.   
  
The Arkenstone had once been the pinnacle of his madness.

It was now the keystone in his salvation.

Letting it go, releasing the stone into the depths of Erebor was a risk he needed to take. A calculated risk, one that would remove any ability to prove who he was or what he said was true without a clear night and an open sky - and one that he would _have_ to take.

He took a breath -

_bones breaking between the fangs of a Warg - men screaming as they die against the spears of Orcs - Kíli - Fíli - Fíli dangling over the ledge - Bilbo -_

then another -

_Smaug’s defeat at the gates of Erebor, dragon blood on his armor, cheers - tears - victory, word from the Blue Mountains - the destruction of the Shire - Bilbo -_

a third.

The heavy sound of the Arkenstone falling to his feet rang calamitously against the walls of his mountain home. A final, jarring note to a symphony he had begun in another lifetime - and the beginning of a new refrain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> read this fic on [tumblr](http://thingsishouldntbedoing.co.vu/tagged/thilbo365)


	18. Day 18 - A reason.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo comes to Thorin's aid against Azog. [Canon AU]

“Bilbo, no!” He scrambled on the ice, trying to catch his feet beneath him as the Hobbit flung himself down, more graceful on the frozen lake than Thorin or his adversary.  
  
 _Where is that archer now?_  
  
He knew where the Forest Prince was, had seen him and had his sword returned, but the thought shot like fire through his adrenaline heavy brain - only an archer could protect Bilbo now. Bilbo and his stupidity. Bilbo and his loyalty.  
  
He had made a mistake, moving sluggish limbs to counter the massive Orc before his Hobbit could reach them, trying to pry his body from the ice as Bilbo’s fearless cry echoed against the walls of the frozen waterfall.

_Bilbo!_

He wasn’t sure if the thought ever escaped his lips as a cry as he ran, breathing gelid air into burning lungs against the faint sounds of war and the scraping of Orcrist’s tip against the surface of the lake as his aching arms shook against the weight of the blade - praying he could lift it in time.  
  
Flashes of half-forgotten memories blinded him - memories the sickness in his blood had forced back into the caverns of his mind - the lingering warmth of Bilbo’s touch on his skin, the soft rush of the Hobbit’s breath on his ear, and soft words meant only for him in the firelight of Laketown.

_I was a fool._

Azog’s hand caught the burglar by his hair and lifted him with ease - and Thorin saw _defiance_ in those eyes, defiance to rise above the fear and the anger that had driven him to come to Thorin’s aid.

“ _BILBO!”_ He watched, as he had many times before, as Azog stole yet another thing from him - yet another precious life he had so desperately cherished.  
  
Yet, what he saw in Bilbo’s eyes was a knowing sacrifice, one that spoke of the faith and love that he had put into Thorin - trusting that his final act would give his lover peace.  
  
 _Mahal, no._  

His Hobbit’s blood, hot and brilliantly red against the faded greys and blues of the ice, sprayed like a banner of victory for one fleeting moment - and then Thorin threw himself against the White Orc with all his might. 

For one, lingering, miserable second he thought they might not make it.

He thought, perhaps, that their fall would stop with a short drop and a crash into the ice and everything Bilbo had done would be for nothing.

But it didn’t stop.  
  
They crested the waterfall above the battle below, the world opening beneath them, but the heart dropping fall only gave him peace as he closed his eyes and relished the biting whip of the air around him.

He had never intended to live. 

Now he had a reason to die.

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on [tumblr](http://thingsishouldntbedoing.co.vu/)


	19. Day 19 - fascination (Part II of ?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Canon] There was something humbling about Thorin with his hair tied back and glasses on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for [bagqinshield](http://bagqinshield.tumblr.com/) and [this art](http://rdjpwns.tumblr.com/post/108446213765/thorin-with-glasses-and-its-all-bagqinshields).

He had only seen them appear in rare moments, times when the firelight was not quite bright enough or the writing was _just_ too small… This particular night, to Bilbo’s delight, was one of those times.  
  
“Shall I light you a candle?” He asked, watching Thorin huddle up beneath the cover of a great tree.  
  
“You are a pleasure, Master Baggins,” Thorin replied dryly.  
  
“I’m only trying to help.” Bilbo hovered around him for a moment, then plopped himself down beside the Dwarf and produced an apple from his pocket. If Thorin minded, he made no mention of it.  
  
“Your method of helping is not appreciated,” Thorin looked over at him. “Are you here to watch me read?”  
  
“It’s very dim,” Bilbo took of a bite of his fruit innocently, but the way Thorin’s lips quirked told him that the Dwarf knew _exactly_ what he was there for.  
  
“Indeed, I suppose it is,” Thorin slipped his spectacles out of his coat and readjusted the parchment on his knee.

Bilbo watched in amazement as the Dwarf placed the glasses on his face and leaned forward just slightly to look at the papers he held. There was something humbling about Thorin with his hair tied back and glasses on his face, something that knocked him down from _proud exiled king_ to _Thorin_ _Oakenshield, roadworn man in spectacles._

“Something you want to say?” He looked over and Bilbo smiled slyly.  
  
“Nope. Not a thing.”  
  
Bilbo settled in as close as he dared to look over the papers, jumping when Thorin lifted his arm. He looked up to see a playful light in the king’s eyes and carefully tucked himself against his side - warm for once in the chill of the plains air.  
  
“I like your glasses,” Bilbo murmured. “They suit you. Reading glasses and a warm hearth and an armchair. Those things belong to you as much as any sword.”  
  
“You are too kind, Master Burglar.”


	20. Day 20 - Thorin's Harp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Canon] Bilbo didn't know Thorin played the harp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **THERE IS A SONG FOR THIS NOW. WRITTEN BY[TINYLILREMUS](http://tinylilremus.tumblr.com/post/108910379573/cant-stop-wont-stop-this-one-was-inspired-by) AND I AM CONSTANTLY SCREAMING. CLICK THE LINK FOR THE SONG.**

He could remember the first time he’d seen the harp, remembered hearing the whispers of nimble fingers across the strings, clear and haunting. At first he had thought it to be an Elf, but his ears picked up notes that Elves did not favor and a deep hum that served as a bass line - a Dwarf? He rounded the corner, silent in the twilight, and hung close to a pillar when he saw it was their Company’s leader.

He had been alone on a bench, the peace on his face and in his movements _arresting_ , harp golden and muted in the nacreous starlight that flooded the patio and bounced off the silver strands scattered through his hair like the tails of a starshower. He seemed almost as timeless as the Elves that kept the halls he played in, had seemed almost _immortal_ to the uninitiated eyes of the Hobbit.

Watching him then, Bilbo had thought that if there ever had been a person that so embodied their title before Thorin Oakenshield, he had little doubt that they were long passed. The Dwarf seemed an ancient king, wise and gentle, and the songs he played struck a note deep in the Hobbit’s heart that settled there - another chord played by the King’s agile touch.

He didn’t know how long he lingered, cheek pressed to the cool marble of the column that shielded him, but it was long past the time that Thorin ceased to play - long past the time when Thorin noticed him, entranced and silent though he was.  
  


 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check out this fic on [tumblr](http://thingsishouldntbedoing.co.vu/tagged/thilbo365/)


	21. Day 21 - Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Canon AU] Kisses have many meanings.

**I. Forehead**

 

Thorin kisses his forehead when he’s happy. A soft press of his lips and a quick scrape of his beard that wrinkle Bilbo’s brow and make him squint, but it forms a bubble of joy in the Hobbit’s stomach that remains there for the rest of the day.

 

**II. Hand**

 

Bilbo is fascinated by Thorin’s hands: broad and flat and powerful, with leathery palms and neat fingernails. They are a workman’s hands with a King’s stature and Bilbo thinks they’re wonderful. Bilbo likes how soft his own hands are in comparison, and how Thorin’s rough knuckles feel when he presses his lips to them and rubs the tension away in the candlelight.

 

**III. Collarbone**

 

When Thorin relaxes (a rarity in and of itself) he stretches out on a chaise in front of the fire, one Bilbo had _acquiesced_ to despite earlier protests, and lets his Hobbit stretch out on his chest while he reads. At moments like this, Bilbo wants nothing more than to listen to Thorin’s heartbeat, heavy and sure beneath his sternum, and he leans up to press a kiss to the hard edge of his lover’s collarbone - a soft comfort.

 

**VI. Neck**

 

He washes up at night with a cool cloth beneath the curls on the nape of his neck and wipes away the sweat of the day. Some nights Thorin helps. _Tries_ to help. Mostly he rubs the knots in Bilbo’s shoulders formed from arguing with a Sackville-Baggins or presses the cool cloth behind his ears and knuckles the headache away from being in the sun too long. Sometimes Thorin kisses the soft junction of his neck and shoulder and leaves a lingering mark that sends spirals of heat out to Bilbo’s fingertips.

 

**V. Lips**

 

Thorin kisses with blunt force - hot and deep, all pressure and tongue, and lingering lips against his until he’s crushed and breathless. When their lips are together Bilbo doesn’t want it to stop; he wants to tangle his hands in Thorin’s hair and hold him close until he never has to fear letting him go again. A bittersweet note in an otherwise consuming passion.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check it out on [tumblr](http://thingsishouldntbedoing.co.vu/tagged/thilbo365/)


	22. Day 22 - Thank you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Canon] Bilbo doesn't understand Khuzdul and Thorin takes advantage of it.

The first time it happens it’s a surprise. It slips off his tongue like an oath, a private word that piques Bilbo’s interest. It seems like he should understand it, as if it should be universal - yet it means nothing.

The second time it’s an undertone, a sound he was certain a Dwarf couldn’t hear - but he was no Dwarf and his sharp Hobbit ears picked up the low rumble of Thorin’s voice as he left. He didn’t understand these words either, yet he understands the intent. He can _feel_ that they mean more - but the language is too difficult for him to mimic and the words fall away from his memory.

It continues to happen as he passes through the halls of Erebor, Thorin releases little murmurs and half-composed thoughts in a language that rakes its fingers up Bilbo’s spine and coils warm in his belly. His words give Bilbo goosebumps… and one day he figures out why.  
  
“That’s all for today,” Thorin says and lets his hand linger on Bilbo’s shoulder for a moment, eyes soft. “We are all in your debt, Bilbo.”  
  
“Well I… only want to help.” Bilbo turns to watch him linger and _waits._  
  
“You are… invaluable.” Thorin’s voice fills with a subtle emotion that Bilbo recognizes and he braces himself. “ _Menu tessu._ ”

Fíli and Kíli had joined with Balin to teach him the soft words their King spoke, as if the three of them _knew_ what Bilbo was asking for - they must have because he recognizes their meaning this time.

“ _Ak… Akminruk...zu_?” The sound is much softer than the rough gravel of the Dwarves’ normal tone, but the point is taken. The burn in his face - a blush he feels in the tips of his ears - only sears more when Thorin’s lips drop open in understanding.

 _Thank you_. He reaches out to him, heart weak in his chest, thankful when Thorin catches his hand.

_Thank you for everything._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DO NOT PRETEND TO BE A KHUZDUL EXPERT OK. But here are the translations of the phrases used:
> 
>  **Menu tessu** : You are everything.  
>  **Akminrukzu** : Thank you.
> 
> Today's post brought to you by [this post.](http://thingsishouldntbedoing.co.vu/post/108383134669/thorinoakenshieldds-okay-but-can-we-think-about)


	23. Day 23 - Of all the places (Part I of ?) FMF #4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Modern AU] Sometimes you just can't wait.

If there was one place Bilbo never thought he’d be, it was definitely straddling Thorin Oakenshield in the backseat of a car.

He supposed he should have expected it, should have known when the sweet kiss lasted a little too long, should have resisted the pressure of Thorin’s body against his and the bite of the cold car door behind him… But _he_ had been the instigator. He had flirted with Thorin through the entire play, had let his lips linger on his partner’s ear a little too long, had scraped his teeth against his bottom lip whenever Thorin went for a peck.

So he probably deserved this. _Deserved_ was the wrong word, too, but for the moment, hips pinned by Thorin’s and hands working under his partner’s shirt, he certainly felt as though he deserved Thorin.

For all the hard work he did, that was.

“Get in the car,” Thorin rumbled against his temple, words striking at the heat in Bilbo’s gut.

“No,” he tried to collect himself, but couldn’t quite complete his sentence.  
  
“No? Out here?” He could hear Thorin’s laugh on his voice, too far gone to dig his knuckles into his lover’s ribs in protest.   
  
“You go first. I’m not being crushed under you,” Bilbo grumbled, cheeks burning against the cool air around them.

Thorin was _not_ about to argue, Bilbo could easily see that, because in an instant the man was folding his too-tall frame into the back of the Audi.

“This is absolutely ridiculous. Couldn’t this wait until we get home?” He tilted his head. He resolved to never again question Thorin’s determination to have sex, not when his partner was crumpled up on the cold leather seats and shrugging his jacket away.  
  
Not that he was _actually_ about to turn him down.

He did resolve later that sex in the grass with the crickets and mud would have been preferable to the cramped space of the backseat… Yet there was something incredibly arousing about the harsh slide of their bodies together, about the way Thorin’s hands gripped his half clothed hips a little too hard, sinking into soft flesh like anchors. The ache from not enough leverage and the premium on space had him panting hard and moaning - sounds mingling obscenely in the superheated air.

Waiting until they got home would have been a mistake.

Untangling themselves later _did_ require a bit of finesse, however.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was more than a little drunk at the end of this fic... I'm sorry.


	24. Day 24 - mischief afoot (Part III of ?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Canon] Respect and indignation or more Thorin + Frodo.

Frodo always watched him. The boy pretended as best he could that what Thorin did was of little to no interest to him, that he was simply reading in the same general location when the Dwarf was training, but Thorin knew better.

Orcrist inspired awe, something he had come to terms with, but it was not only the Elvish blade Frodo was fascinated with… and one day his suspicions came true.  
  
“May I touch it?” Frodo interrupted one afternoon as Thorin sat in the grass, polishing the silver steel until it shone. “I… always wanted to touch it.”  
  
Thorin looked up to find the child mere feet from him, as if he had scooted through the grass inch by inch until he reached his Dwarven uncle, eyes bright in the shade of the great oaks above them. Thorin wasn’t sure there were words for his nephew’s eyes in Westron, Khuzdul, or Sindarin - and he certainly couldn’t help but be bewitched by them.  
  
“Orcrist is no toy. If you wish to lay your hand upon such a blade you must respect it,” he said and pat the earth beside him, a space Frodo eagerly filled.  
  
“How do I show it respect?” Thorin hefted the blade in his hand, letting the sharp blade rest against the sheath below it. “Do I bow to it?”  
  
“Cheeky,” Thorin chided. “This blade has rent heads from shoulders and taken the lives of many…”  
  
“You’ve killed people?” Frodo curled his fingers into the lip of Thorin’s boot. “But I don’t fear you.”  
  
“You _should_ ,” Thorin said playfully and tickled his fingers under the Hobbit’s chin, smiling at the laughter that rang between the trees. “Alright give me your hand,” he took the child’s wrist in his fingers and guided his touch to the flat length of the blade. “Don’t stray too far, the edge will take your fingers off.”  
  
Frodo trailed his fingertips down along the cool steel, lips parted in awe, “What does this mark mean?” He murmured.  
  
“It’s an enchantment… some Elvish rub - If my memory serves me it’s what gives the blade its strength, and what makes it glow.”  
  
“It glows?” Frodo gasped. “Why?”  
  
“Elves hate Goblins and _Orcs_ more than anything else in Arda. This blade, from ancient days, was made to glow brightly when their enemies were near,” Thorin said. If there was anyone in the world that could make him speak kindly of Elves it was _Frodo_.  
  
“Elves are amazing,” Frodo sighed happily. “Is there anything they can’t do?”  
  
“Grant wishes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check out this fic on [tumblr.](http://thingsishouldntbedoing.co.vu/tagged/thilbo365)


	25. Day 25 - mischief afoot (Part IV of ?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Canon AU] Even more indignation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This AU is quickly becoming: "How indignant can Thorin become before he implodes?"

“Uncle!” Kíli’s laughter filled the halls of Bag End as Bilbo watched the Dwarves meet and embrace. “I thought you’d have grown a bit _wider_ living in luxury?” He patted Thorin’s stomach and the former king locked his arm around his nephew’s neck.  
  
“And I thought you’d have grown a beard by now!” Thorin’s mocking voice was barely audible over his nephew’s groan.  
  
“That’s not fair, Thorin!” Kíli whined as he struggled to get free. “Ugh, come on, how are you -” He dug his heels into the rug.  
  
“First thing he does is pick a fight,” Tauriel murmured, slouched beneath the short ceiling as she shrugged out of her cloak. “Vedui’, Bilbo.”  
  
“‘Quel undome, and did you honestly expect any less?” Bilbo chuckled. Dwalin stepped forward when Thorin released his sister’s son and Hobbit and Elf both winced at the crashing of skulls that immediately preceded the warriors’ greetings. “I’m surprised they don’t knock each other out…”  
  
“You underestimate how hard Dwarven heads are,” Tauriel looked around the hallway. “Is there somewhere I can sit? It’s…”  
  
“Oh, of course! How rude of me! You’re not as tall as Gandalf at least. He _always_ hits his head on the chandelier.” Bilbo bustled off to show her into the hearth room. “Aren’t you going to greet Thorin?”  
  
“I will, later.”  
  
The relationship between Thorin and Tauriel had always been… _tepid_ at best. He seemed to have accepted her presence as a relative constant and had resigned himself to being moderately amicable towards her… That didn’t seem to stop the air from being incredibly awkward when they were in the same room for too long. 

“Someone should box his ears for being so rude,” Bilbo grumbled. “It might as well be me.”  
  
“No need to be upset with him on my behalf. Where is your nephew, if I may ask?” She finally folded herself into a chair with a bit of a sigh. “Much better.”  
  
“Ah Frodo… he’s with his cousins, though I suspect they won’t be able to resist showing their faces. They do love visitors. You especially,” Bilbo said playfully.  
  
He was never more a Hobbit than when he had company. He _adored_ company, especially company that he knew well and that brought stories from distant lands - though he might have preferred if they were a bit more _polite_.  


Tauriel was by far his favorite among his visitors, quiet and a little socially awkward, she was obviously more suited for the battlefield than for a gentlehobbit’s living room. She joined the Dwarves in talks of great wars and corrected her lover gently when his stories grew too large for his shoulders.

They were interrupted only by the sound of rushing footsteps and the swinging open of Bag End’s door, the pattering of bare feet on the entry floor drawing nearer.  
  
“Tauriel!” Frodo cried as soon as he was inside, immediately followed by his friends.  
  
“Frodo!” She rose, nearly crashing headlong into the supporting beam of the door - earning a snort of derision from Thorin and a concerned sound muffled into Kíli’s knuckles. She seemed unphased, letting Frodo gallop into her arms. She hadn’t expected the rush of children to follow, laughing as a small army of Hobbit children piled into her lap, all talking at once.  
  
“What’s the matter, Thorin?” Bilbo asked with a hand to his cheek in amusement. “Mad that you aren’t the favorite anymore?”  
  
Thorin sunk slightly in his chair, glowering as Tauriel wrestled with four small Hobbits - something they were prone to doing with the Dwarf as well. He seemed to respond but his answer was barely audible - had Bilbo not been listening closely he might have missed a priceless Thorin pout -

“Elves don’t grant wishes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't forget to check out the new ask blog [for The Children of Thrain](http://durinkids.tumblr.com).


	26. Day 26 - mischief afoot (Part V of ?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Canon AU] Bath time with Frodo and Thorin never ends well.

“Thorin,” he looked up to find his Hobbit standing over him, hands on his hips. “I asked you a question.”  
  
“What’s that?” He asked with insincere interest - he would rather return to the book Bilbo had given him for his name day. _Learn to enjoy reading_ , Bilbo had said, but how was he supposed to enjoy reading if Bilbo interrupted him every hour of the day?  
  
“I need to finish preparing dinner. Will you check on Frodo in his bath?” Bilbo requested. “ _Please_?”  
  
“Bath…” Thorin groaned. “Isn’t he old enough to -” He closed his book, sulking under Bilbo’s gaze. “Fine…”  
  
He bound his hair back and rolled up his sleeves, anticipating being splashed the moment he entered the washroom. Frodo’s bath time was more like a very damp nightmare that usually involved too many suds and Thorin head first in the tub.  
  
This time, however, he was prepared.  
  
“Frodo?” He knocked on the door, bracing himself.  
  
“You can come in, Uncle Thorin!” Frodo’s small voice answered cheerfully. Cheer. That made him suspicious.  
  
“What are you up to in here?” Thorin pressed his ear against the door.   
  
“I said you can come in! Why are you yelling through the door?” Frodo giggled. “I won’t splash you I promise!”  
  
“When you say that it just makes me want to open the door _less_.”  
  
“What’s the matter? Are you afraid?”  
  
Thorin should have heard the mischief in his nephew’s voice, should have expected what was to come, instead he stubbornly thrust the door open - to a deluge of bubbles.  
  
“What in the -”  
  
“Thorin! What is all this!?” He couldn’t see anything for foam but he could hear Bilbo’s voice from somewhere down the hallway. “Gracious! Are these bubbles!?”  
  
Frodo’s laughter haunted Thorin well into his last century.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't even know what i'm doing anymore. laughing i think. [tumblr](http://thingsishouldntbedoing.co.vu/tagged/thilbo365)


	27. Day 27 - Keelah se'lai (Part I of ?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Mass Effect/The Hobbit Crossover] Bilbo, a gentle Quarian on his Pilgrimage, runs into a force of Turians seeking to recover the system they lost in the Reaper War before others take it first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this will eventually be a part of a series within the 365

He heard the clatter of a heatsink, curled his fingers around the knife in his boot. He was cornered - pressed back into the steel of an old storage crate - and he could feel a mild fever setting in from the hole in his envirosuit, but there was little he could do beyond hold his breath and pray the footsteps would stop.

“I know you’re there,” subvocals scraped the bottom of their registers - flanging slightly in the frigid air.  
  
“Thorin!?” He turned his head but didn’t rise, in case the Spectre wasn’t alone.   
  
The footsteps neared and the terrified quarian looked up to find Thorin standing above him, helmetless and filthy. His mandibles flared as he knelt, giving away his concern, and Bilbo felt his heart jump - wondering if that was the fever.  
  
“Are you injured?” Concern again whittled away at the secondary tones of his voice, subtle and sweet.

“No,” Bilbo told him hurriedly. “I mean, I caught my leg on a pipe and - I’m fine, though my envirosuit isn’t.” He slid his fingers over the tear and Thorin knelt down, subvocals growling. “Where are the others?”  
  
“Clearing a path back to the Mako,” he lifted his head, turning it sharply to check a sound. “Do you hear that?”  
  
“A rumble! The snowbanks!” Bilbo caught Thorin’s arm. “The explosions have started an avalanche!”

“Get them on your comm line!” Thorin started for the doors to the container and pulled with all his might to close them manually.   
  
“Kíli! Balin, do you copy?” The quarian tapped at his omnitool uselessly. “No good, there’s too much inference!”   
  
“Keep trying!” Thorin finally wrenched the doors shut, the roaring of the snow growing louder by the second. “Get to the front of the crate!” He caught Bilbo’s hand and pulled him to his feet.   
  
For a split second Bilbo wondered what life would have been like if he had never left home. If perhaps he could have avoided this whole debacle. Perhaps he would be on Rannoch, in his house with a mug of tea and the windows open. Perhaps he would be gardening on his family’s plot before the river. 

If he had never left home, he wouldn’t be shoved against the cold metal of a container with Thorin strapping them into place with the safety lines they’d used on the mountain side - a mountain side he also wished he’d never seen.  
  
“Thorin, I don’t want to die in an avalanche!” he said it before he could stop himself, before his mind could consider how cowardly the words sounded.  
  
The silence was interrupted by the rumble that announced the avalanche’s approach, by the beating of his own heart in his ears, and by the curling of the turian’s arm around his waist.  
  
“Hold on. I won’t let you die.”  
  
“Inspiring words,” he curled his fingers into the lip of his armor. He could feel Thorin braced, feet hard in place, and heard the anticipation humming high in his subvocals - but it was the quiet that terrified him - the moment when all sound faded and he knew that the snow torrent had reached them.  
  
“Just keep breathing. Whatever you do, don’t stop breathing.”  
  
Bilbo closed his eyes and pressed his helmet into Thorin’s armor, praying for purchase on the compressed metal, and tried to focus on the sound of his lungs and the low growl of Thorin’s voice.

“Keelah se’lai.”  
  
He didn’t have a moment to consider what the turian had just said, that he had uttered a quarian phrase.  
  
If he thought the silence was deafening before - it was worse after.


	28. Day 28 - mischief afoot (Part VI of ?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dís comes to visit in today's episode of mischief afoot.

Thorin had been bustling around Bag End for hours now, hair tied back and an apron over his fineries. He suppose he should have expected some sort of reaction, after all this was his younger sister’s first visit since Thorin had moved to Hobbiton.

“Why are you so nervous?” Bilbo said, amused. “I’ve never seen you _clean_ before?”  
  
The dwarf stopped in his motions and Bilbo thought he might have said the wrong thing - after all, Thorin _was_ temperamental.  
  
“I just want everything to be perfect,” Thorin finally answered after a while, as if his brain had ceased to function and needed to be rekindled. “What if she comes and everything is a mess?”  
  
“Are you suggesting that my lovely Hobbit hole is _ever_ a mess?” Bilbo asked with narrowed eyes.   
  
“No, no, of course not,” he shook his head, repentant.   
  
“That’s what I thought. You know, if you were so worried, you could have just asked for help?” Bilbo caught his fingers around the braids at his lover’s temples.   
  
“You would have told me to do it myself.” Bilbo searched Thorin’s eyes, then smiled sweetly.  
  
“Of course, but I would have helped, as well,” he pulled the dwarf down into a kiss.

“Uncle Bilbo!” Frodo’s voice interrupted them. “Someone’s at the door!”  
  
Immediately following the bell rang and Thorin shot across the room.

“Okay just… act normal…” Thorin said hesitantly, tugging his hair free of its bindings as Bilbo picked Frodo up.  
  
“ _You_ act normal,” Bilbo scoffed.  
  
He wasn’t sure _what_ he had been expecting when Thorin had said his sister would be visiting - though from Fíli and Kíli he assumed he was expecting someone more severe looking (though he had pictured a slightly less thick Thorin in the place of a better image) but this dwarf was altogether different.  
  
“I thought you’d never answer the door, Thorin.”

“ _She’s pretty. Will she grant wishes too?_ ” Frodo whispered against Bilbo’s ear and he chuckled.


	29. Day 29 - Needles and Orchids (Part I of ?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Florist/Tattoo Artist AU] Betrayal. That was what Balin was up to. He was _betraying_ Thorin with his sly words and knowing smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had a bunch of requests to do something with the Florist/Tattoo Artist AU that's been going around in the bagginshield fandom... and who am I to say no?
> 
> Credit for this idea goes to [Quel](http://tosquinha.tumblr.com/) and [Radio](http://radiorcrist.tumblr.com/).

The morning could be counted a success if he didn't stare out the front window for thirty minutes straight, however ridiculous that may have sounded. This morning could not be counted such, as at that exact moment he was staring out the front window for... going on twenty seven minutes.

Twenty seven minutes of absent, lovestruck silence.

"Don't you think you're going to drown those asphodels?" A voice came to him through the haze and he was alerted to the water now dripping down over his boots and gathering into the drain.

"Shit," he drew the canister back to a chorus of laughter from somewhere deep in the shop. "Balin, couldn't you... do something else?"

"Like what?" His best friend was leaning on the counter, chin in his hands, with the biggest grin he'd ever seen.

"Get a job? Get out of here? Do _anything_ besides stare at me." Thorin set about mopping up the mess he'd made, grumbling about ungrateful friends.

"I have a job. I work here, making sure you don't overwater flowers because you're daydreaming about a certain cute tattoo artist."

Thorin's movements halted and he considered how many times he would have to beat Balin with the garden hose before he'd stop talking, weighing the rubber in his fingers.

"Has he said anything yet?" 

Thorin turned a cold shoulder and rustled around with a bouquet he had soaking in the sink, trying to pretend Balin wasn't sucker punching him with a laugh on his voice.

Betrayal. That was what Balin was up to. He was _betraying_  Thorin with his sly words and knowing smile.

"Thorin?" 

He sniffed, the hair on the back of his neck prickling when Balin stepped closer. 

"Christ! Can't you mind your own business?" Thorin asked when he could see Balin out of the corner of his eye. "What makes you think I even... Why _that_ guy? I'm not so pathetic that I'd pine away after somebody."

"When did you drop off the flowers?"

"NINE! Nine AM! I left them on his desk and he hasn't said a thing!" Thorin snipped the ends off of a series of roses, careful to keep them under running water. "And he hasn't said a damned thing!"

He could _feel_ Balin's placating smile, wishing for half a moment that the smug man's face was one of the roses he was trimming.

"Maybe he's busy?" Balin offered, but Thorin could hear the barely restrained giggles.

"He could take _five_ minutes to say _something_." Thorin lifted the stems and let them drip, the gentle patter soothing his nerves.

"Could he? What if he's got some big piece he's working on?"

Thorin didn't respond, eyes on the flowers he was working with, but he did consider Balin's words. In fact, he considered them for the rest of the day, glancing up at the clock every few minutes as it drew closer and closer to 6 PM, praying that Bilbo would appear with all his hipster panache... But six came and went and Thorin was left with the clean up and a pat on the shoulder from Balin, who smiled apologetically.

_Why didn't he say anything?_ He checked his phone, for what felt like the thousandth time that day, and still found nothing... Perhaps he had misread the signs? Maybe Bilbo wasn't as interested as he'd thought?

Of course... That had to be it... Why would someone as wonderful and mischievous as Bilbo want /him/? He was... Well, it didn't matter what he was, in the end, did it?

He slung his jacket over his arm and walked out of the front door, his breath rising in a mist, warm and damp, and he wished he'd put his jacket on before he'd left the warmth of the shop.

Casting one last glance towards the opposite storefronts, he turned and started up the street - after the day he'd had he needed a drink more than anything.

"Thorin!" He heard his name in the distance and stalled on the sidewalk. "Thorin, wait!"

He looked around to see a figure sprinting towards him at full force - the stem of an orchid bouncing on its supporting pole - and his chest nearly burst.

"I'm - so sorry! I'm so sorry!" Bilbo skidded to a stop in front of him, panting as if he'd just run a marathon. "I'm so sorry!" He said again and Thorin just wished he'd get to the point. "I was... not at the shop today!" His voice was rough and flat, signs of a cold. "Ori said there was... Oh God, I'm so sorry..." He coughed, hacking like a smoker.

Thorin realized that Bilbo was still in his pajamas: flannel pants and a beaten up university tee. A state of undress that Thorin found endearing in comparison to Bilbo’s usual dapper wear. It wasn’t hard to put together the rest.  
  
“You came all the way here?” Thorin asked, swinging his jacket around Bilbo’s shoulders. “Without a coat!? _Sick!?_ ”  
  
“Ori said you… he didn’t tell me that you’d given me a _flower_.” Bilbo finally managed, releasing a shaky groan at the end of his coughing fit. “It’s so sweet… you’re so fucking sweet I just… Whoa!”   
  
Thorin swept him up and the artist fumbled with the orchid and its pot to brace it between both his hands, apparently quite stunned. Thorin was pleased to see that the color of the orchid he had chosen matched several of the rich tones on Bilbo’s arms, not stopping the satisfied grin.  
  
“Where are we going?” Bilbo’s voice broke and he tried not to cough again.  
  
“Home. I’m going to make you soup and force feed it to you until you start thinking straight. Coming out here in the middle of the night with no coat.” Thorin grumbled.  
  
“I didn’t… want you to think I didn’t like you. I do like you. A lot.”  
  
“Good. Try proving it to me by taking care of yourself,” Thorin told him.  
  
“Okay…” Bilbo dropped his head onto his shoulder. “I can do that.”

 

 


	30. Day 30 - Snippet from A Wanderer Be (FMF #5)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [A Wanderer Be Snippet] Things get a little hot and heavy, even if a bunch of idiot boys are in the next room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've had a shitty couple of days and I'm feeling less than motivated today so here - for Fuck Me Friday you get a snippet from A Wanderer Be's first sex scene.

He moaned against Thorin’s lips, crushed between him and the wall, and ran his hands up over the short hairs at the back of his neck, opening his mouth to the insistent laving of his tongue. _Oh_ how he’d wondered what this would be like, body aching at the rough hands that pinned him and pulled his borrowed shirt up, leaving fire behind on his skin.

Thorin chased his breath into his mouth and Bilbo couldn’t stop his hands from shaking, exactly where he wanted to be at this moment as he wound his fingers into the thatch of hair the soldier’s nephews had left behind. It was a bit obscene how hot his body was, how lurid the sounds were that escaped his mouth were when Thorin found his neck and left lovebites behind - pleasure on the edge of pain.  
  
He was beyond the ability of thinking, cock aching at the heavy pressure of Thorin’s thigh between his. He was nearly naked, surrendering to having his shirt pulled free, and panting as he finally freed his hands and let them slide over the taper of Thorin’s hips and waist, gripping the heavy fabric of the henley he’d dreamed of ripping away for days and tugging it off.  
  
Bilbo’s hand found the curve of his shoulder, thumb gliding over the thin scars on his bicep and over his chest, then down to sink beneath his leather belt and pull it free.

  
Somewhere between the taste of Thorin’s lips and the firm give of muscle beneath his palms, he had forgotten that an entire circus troupe of underage boys were sleeping not far away; fortunately the callused hands that were wedging the rolled fabric of his borrowed pants down drowned any chance of consideration. He gasped, voice rough around words he’d nearly forgotten, canting his hips at the squeeze of powerful hands and the scrape of blunt nails over the curve of his ass.  
  
Even if the boys were going to come in, there was no way in hell he was about to stop. They would just have to _watch_ or so help him, he might tear apart from the inside out.


	31. Day 31 - mischief afoot (Part VII of ?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Canon AU] Part 2 of Dís' visit.

She didn’t grant wishes, at least not the kind that Thorin did, but she did bring with her a stuffed ram with impeccable stitching that Frodo was now clinging to. He sat on her knee and let her braid his hair, running his small fingers over every soft inch of his new toy as Bilbo thanked her profusely every chance he had.

He had forgotten that Hobbits preferred to be the ones _giving_ the gifts. Or maybe he had just neglected to mention that to his sister because he enjoyed the idea of setting his burglar on his heels every once in a while.  
  
“You know I’ve always wondered about Hobbit homes,” Dís was saying by the time he tuned back in, realizing that Frodo was watching him intently.  
  
“Oh yes?” Thorin mused. “They’re very warm. I always thought it was odd that they lived in the-” He stopped, checking for Bilbo.  
  
“You always said they lived in the dirt like _moles_.” Dís said playfully, as if she knew what he was thinking. “And that they were meek and crushable.”  
  
“Yes well… I was young and they are certainly…”  
  
“Sturdy?” He didn’t like the way his sister’s brow arched, or the way her lips curled into a smirk.   
  
“Yes I… sturdy…” Thorin sank down into his chair.  
  
“Don’t slouch,” she chided. “Just because you put my son on the throne doesn’t mean you can-”  
  
Thorin smiled at her mothering, leaning his cheek against his fist. He remembered a moment very similar to this with Fíli at her feet and Kíli on her lap, her deft fingers working braids into her youngest son’s hair. He remembered how happy she had been then, how bright her smile, how bold her laugh, and he was glad to see some of that returned in her features _now_.   
  
“What are you smiling about?” She asked softly, eyes soft as she combed Frodo’s hair with her knuckles. “Silly old man.”  
  
“I missed you, _nan’ith_.” Her face lifted, a pure smile tugging at her features, and he hid his echo behind his knuckles.   
  
“And I you, _naddad_.”  
  
“Uncle Thorin smiled!” Frodo reported when Bilbo joined them, carrying a tray of tea and biscuits.  
  
“I didn’t!” Thorin protested.

For all the humiliation that child put him through… it was good to hear his sister laugh again.

 


	32. Day 32 - mischief afoot (VIII of ?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Canon AU] Frodo has a nightmare. Companion to Amê Mâmrali.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wrote the song featured here with [Ash](http://tinylilremus.tumblr.com/), its name is Amê Mâmrali, and it is supposed to be a Dwarven lullaby translated by Thorin for Frodo.
> 
> You can find the lyrics [here](http://jocunditea.co.vu/post/109820690044/ame-mamrali).
> 
> And the song [here](http://jocunditea.co.vu/post/109820801154/tinylilremus-so-morgan-and-i-were-chatting-this).

A creak alerted him, the sound jarring in the shadows his dreams brought on, and his hand reached for his sword on instinct, closing around air. His eyes adjusted, itching, and he searched the darkness for the intruder.  
  
“Mmm… Frodo?” Thorin’s eyes settled on a small figure, voice rough with sleep, and the child padded closer, arms tight around the ram Thorin’s sister had given him. “What are you doing awake?” A flash of lightning illuminated Frodo’s face, drawn and fearful.  
  
“I had a bad dream,” Frodo neared, placing cool fingers in Thorin’s outstretched hand.  
  
“Come here,” he shoved himself up onto one elbow, ignoring the tension in his spine and the ache of old wounds in the cold.  
  
“Thorin?” Bilbo’s voice was nearly as drained as Frodo’s face, faint in the night.  
  
“It’s alright. I’ve got him,” Thorin answered, lifting Frodo with one arm.  
  
The dwarf settled back against the pillows, stroking Frodo’s curls back from his face as the child nestled into the crook of his elbow. For a time Frodo was quiet, the ram braced on his knees, and a memory from a previous life flashed before Thorin’s eyes - of another small boy in his lap after being reprimanded by their father, another small boy with a stuffed ram, another who had not deserved his fate.  
  
“Uncle Thorin?” Frodo asked and Thorin looked down at him. “Are Orcs real?”  
  
“Did my story scare you?” He frowned slightly, watching Frodo stroke gentle fingers through the hair on his chest.  
  
“No, I… I just wanted to know... if Orcs were real…”  
  
“They are.” Thorin adjusted him, shifting his small weight easily to cradle him in one arm, and Frodo relaxed, nestling his cheek against Thorin’s shoulder. “But I won’t let them hurt you.”  
  
“How can you be sure?”  
  
“Because I’ll always be here, right?” Thorin told him. “I’ll always keep you safe.” From the depths of his memories a song rose, a bittersweet lullaby that he had once heard sung as a child - a song he had used to calm his nephews when they had dreamt of dragons and death:

 

When thunder rolls

and fear takes hold

and stories come to life;

come to my side

and settle close

and I will hold you tight.

 

For those who love you

most will guard

you until it’s light

so rest ‘til morn my little one.

_Amê Mâmrali._

 

Don’t be scared

just close your eyes

I will be right here.

The night has come

the sun has gone

away over the hills.

 

For those who love you

most will guard

you until it’s light

so rest ‘til morn my little one.

_Amê Mâmrali._

 

Nightmares will come

but never fear

I will be right here.

The time has come,

my little one

For dreams your mind to fill.

 

For those who love you

most will guard

you until it’s light

so rest ‘til morn my little one.

_Amê Mâmrali._

 

When the last word of the song had faded away, when he had fallen into reverent silence for the memories that had been brought to the front of his mind, he realized that Frodo had fallen deeply asleep - clutching his ram tightly.

He was left alone to watch Frodo sleep, heart heavy with old pain.

 

 


	33. Day 33 - Absolute Refractory Period (Part I of ?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [College AU] Nothing brings people together like tedious late night classes.

Neurobiology was possibly the most boring class he’d ever been in. The subject was interesting. The professor was interesting. Why was the sum total utterly jejune?

It might have been because the lecture was in the middle of the night, or maybe it was simply the fact that studying the absolute refractory period of action potential was mind-numbing in its own special way.

“-- basically, a fraction of time that the action potential cannot be repeated. Action potentials _cannot_ overlap, otherwise your brain would be incapable of handling the feedback.”  
  
“My brain is incapable of handling _this_ feedback,” a voice said from beside him and he snorted. The first day of class he had plopped down next to a mousy haired young man whose dry comments he’d enjoyed with more than just a little gusto - they made the class pass faster than its required hour and fifteen minutes.  
  
“Only twenty minutes left.”  
  
“Thorin, if my brain starts leaking out my ears, don’t get the professor - just let me die,” his seatmate grumbled.  
  
“Bilbo, if _your_ brain starts leaking I can’t imagine what mine’s going to do.”  
  
“Explode like that guy from Indiana Jones.”  
  
He stuffed his fist into his mouth to stop the guffaw that threatened to escape and his companion pressed air out his nostrils, forcing back a similar laugh with more grace than Thorin could have managed.  
  
“Nice bun today,” he heard the sheepish comment and looked over to find a pair of gray eyes watching him.  
  
“Oh… thanks, I think?” He touched the hair on top of his head. “Was that… a compliment?” He wasn’t sure why those gray eyes made his heart race, or why such a casual compliment made him want to hide his face.

“Well… yes? Should I… not compliment you?”  
  
“It’s just… unusual…” Thorin shrugged it off and looked back to his notes, trying desperately to focus on picking apart the professor’s accent.  
  
“You know, I forgot to ask for your phone number the first day.”  
  
Thorin thought his neck might have broken if he would have whipped his head back any faster.

“If that’s… okay?” Bilbo finished. His gaze never faltered, confident in an easy, humble sort of way - without any of the ofermod that he so often saw in himself.  
  
“Yeah,” he breathed, still dumbstruck by the haymaker of the combined compliment and request.  
  
He was fairly certain that his entire neurological system was in an absolute refractory period.

 


	34. Day 34 - Absolute Refractory Period (Part II of ?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [College AU] Nothing brings people together like tedious late night classes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of this ridiculous college AU to make me feel better lmao

_Dinner_.

How could go to dinner? How did he _dress_ for dinner? He’d been gnawing at the idea like a dog on a bone all day - and standing in line for Starbucks (with overly-friendly college students pressed so close he thought he’d need WD-40 to pry them off) had done nothing to alleviate the strain.

He prayed the teen in front of him would hurry the _hell_ up.  
  
“Christ…”  
  
“Why are you so anxious?” His best friend had apparently decided to open his _stupid_ mouth. His best friend with his out of date mohawk that his stony scowl had managed to make look cool, his best friend with his dry, bitter humor - his best friend that was _absolutely_ no help.  
  
“ _Date_?”  
  
“Oh yeah well I just sort of thought you’d already figured that out. He asked you out to dinner he’s not asking you to marry him.” Dwalin said with all the certainty in the world.

“You don’t just date to _date_ Dwalin. The whole end game of dating is being together forever isn’t it?”  
  
“Why don’t you _rela-_ who the fuck am I talking to? Thorin the Perpetually Anxious.”  
  
“Don’t talk back to me.”  
  
“Of _course_ your _highness_.”  
  
He had said it jokingly but Thorin felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, eyes turning to peer at them curiously.

“Remind me which mind numbing class you met this guy in? Have you ever thought that maybe you only think he’s smart and funny because he’s comparatively interesting in relation to that class you’re in?”  
  
“You’ve been talking to Dís too much - you’re starting to sound _intelligent._ God forbid that happens.” Thorin told him, voice flat. “No I just like him… he’s nice and cute… and please don’t call me _your highness_ when we’re in public?”  
  
“Oh should I only call you that in private?”  
  
“Dwalin I might actually break your neck,” he grit his teeth and his friend barked a laugh. “Look I just want to go to dinner with him. He asked me.”  
  
“In the slickest way possible. This guy is a smooth operator, make sure you’re not in over your bumbling head.”  
  
“I am not _bumbling_.”  
  
“You are when it comes to cute boys with _stormy_ eyes.”  
  
“Stormy? That’s not one I’ve heard before.” A familiar voice joined their conversation.

Thorin was fairly certain there was no god. No god could be this cruel. No god could possibly have made him stand in this line for nigh on twenty minutes only to have _this_ happen.  
  
“Like rolling thunderclouds over a storm ridden ocean,” Dwalin waxed poetic and Thorin staunchly refused to turn around.

Maybe if he ignored Bilbo he’d go away. Go away until he’d figured out what to wear on their date or how to talk to someone on a date - or maybe just until his face stopped burning from Dwalin’s teasing.  
  
“Did you have a presentation today?” Bilbo was asking when his hearing returned to him. “You look handsome.”  
  
“I -”  
  
“Bilbo! Over here!” A girl called from across the room and Bilbo waved back.  
  
“My cousin, I’m sorry,” he said apologetically. “You do look nice though.” He flashed a smile and Thorin felt his knees go weak - how was he supposed to handle this? He couldn’t even get a word in edgewise? “I’ll see you tonight.”  
  
“Tonight,” he managed to echo around his leaden tongue, watching Bilbo walk away.  
  
Dwalin laughed until Thorin dumped his coffee over his head.


	35. Day 35 - Malted Milk Balls (Part I of ?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [WWII AU] Bilbo is assigned to write letters to a soldier on the frontlines. A friendship blossoms. A story in letters.

_4 December 1940_

 

Salutations,

 

I've been assigned to send you a letter, I hope you don't mind as I am afraid I'm not very good at this sort of thing.

The sun is shining today, as usual England has proven itself incredibly unimaginative when it comes to weather, and the fact that the sun is out [this has been scratched out] means [another series of dark lines] well you know how rare the sunshine is here.

We're working hard here. The people in the town near my home work hard at their tasks - little things keep the war at bay, they say. People making food and making clothes and chopping wood - things that keep their minds busy and away from the shadow that looms in the East. An entire colony of school children live on my property with their keepers - it's been a delight to see them, the future of our great Kingdom [this part has been furiously scratched out].

It all seems so incredibly mundane. 

What's it like where you are? What are the men thinking?

 

Godspeed,

Bilbo Baggins, Esq.

  

* * *

 

_1 January 1941_

 

Mr. Baggins,

 

Thank you kindly for the letter. I was surprised to receive one. 

The weather in England is questionable, isn't it? It wouldn't be England without rain or clouds. We wouldn't know what to do without umbrellas on our arms or our coat collars turned up against our necks.

Here they make us run rain or shine so it doesn't matter much if we care for the rain. I think when this war is over I'll never run again. I'll relax in front of a fire somewhere with a hot cuppa and a Great Dane at my feet for the rest of my life.

What do they say to you? What do they tell you? Anything I say will be redacted, I'm sure.

 

Second Lieutenant Thorin Durin II

 

* * *

  

_28 January 1941_

 

Lieutenant Durin,

 

I was equally surprised to see a response! I hope you're still well.

They say to keep doing our normal activities. ~~But I don't know how any of this keeps the spirits up.~~ I see wives grow weary, I see them hide behind their curtains when they see strangers in the street, I see children - who should be free to run in the country without care - listening closely to nightly transmissions, praying to hear their father's voice.

No one talks about it. No one dares. And if they do it's only to pass tips about how to avoid being seen at night or to talk about refugees coming in from the cities. Everyone worries, everyone keeps a stiff upper lip, but no one comforts.

I'm sorry you run so much. I've never been able to run very far, I had Polio as a child and never was quite the same. Lucky I survived I suppose. Lucky they say but how lucky am I that I sit at home while the RAF flies over our heads and the [REDACTED]. 

Is there anything I could send you? Anything you need?

 

Godspeed,

Bilbo Baggins, Esq.

* * *

 

  

_27 February 1941_

 

Mr. Baggins,

 

I’m sorry to hear about your illness. I am glad I never experienced it, but my brother did. He was just a kid.  
  
I thought it might have been the case that you were told not to talk. We, however, talk about home a lot here. It’s good to hear about the countryside, since my sister and her children moved out of the city and I haven’t been able to contact them.  
  
If you were serious I might request some malted milk balls. I would be in your debt, but don’t go out of your way.

 

Thank you,

Thorin.


	36. Day 36 - This Is Gospel (Part I of ?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Destiny AU] Sometimes he thinks it might have been better if this war had never come to him...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the first part of my Destiny!AU. There was supposed to be more in this first chapter but life happens. Expect a much longer chapter next time! :/

He braced his SUROS against his thigh and summoned his Ghost into his palm, listening to the party chatter passing between his fireteam: Kíli was perched high, calling shots like party favors, Fíli had circled around the Cosmodrome, taking in the old airfield with Dwalin by his side - and _he_ was camping at the edge of the drop site with Fallen for company.  
  
“Is anyone hearing this?” Another Ghost’s voice came over his comm line, crackling and faint. “My Guardian --- down in the East --- and Hive --- requested.”  
  
“Fíli how far off are you from the Skywatch?” Thorin asked. “Did you pick that up?”  
  
“Pick what up?” His nephew answered, voice clear and sharp. 

“We’re just outside the Forgotten Shore, Thorin.” His right hand answered.  
  
“Shit. Kíli do you copy?”  
  
“Loud and clear, Uncle!” He heard the slide of a bolt, the lock of a fresh round into a sniper rifle.  
  
“Drop what you’re doing and meet me in the Divide. There’s a Ghost and a pinned Guardian.” He pushed himself up, dusting the dirt off the fabric of his Mark.  
  
“How many?” The sounds of a rifle being slung by its strap punctuated the question, and the faint hum of a transmat echoed his own.  
  
“I don’t know. Just move fast,” Thorin mounted his bike, maneuvering with ease.

 

* * *

 

He curled into himself more tightly, arms wrapped around the bulk of his smoking fusion rifle, pressing prayers to the Traveler against the heated steel. 

“I’ve sent out an SOS but no one’s responded…” His Ghost floated nearby, scanning the area. “We might have to fight our way out.”  
  
“I’m out of ammunition and down to a knife,” darkness swirled around his fingers - violet and black with sparks of light like the chasm of the universe they existed in. “I’ve got a few Axion Bolts left in me.”  
  
“That could clear a path.”

“Even if we make it out there we might die…”

“If we stay in here we might die.” 

“Point taken. I’d rather be at the Tower right now… sometimes I wonder why _I_ was brought back instead of someone better…” he murmured.  
  
“Bilbo don’t doubt yourself. I chose you for a reason. Come.” The Ghost vanished into sparks of light.  
  
“You know Gandalf I’m not sure I appreciate being brought back to life. I was much better off as a skeleton.” Bilbo pushed himself to his feet and crouched low, slinging his rifle over his back.  
  
“You’ll be one again soon.”  
  
“Comforting.”


End file.
